


Deconstruction

by skyling



Category: Fruits Basket
Genre: Alcohol, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Gender Issues, Mild Language, Past Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 21:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2165643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyling/pseuds/skyling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. At age seventeen, Akito moves away from a troubled past and a small town, to live alone in the city and attend high school. Here, Akito meets Tohru Honda and the two develop feelings for one another, but both must deal with the memories this brings back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I: City Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading my story! This fix intends to explore "what if" questions, showing what could happen if Furuba characters were placed in very different situations. Characters attend a high school in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and there is no zodiac curse. Instead, this story aims to show characters navigating romance, friendship, and familial relationships, and to explore themes of gender, orientation, mental health, dis/ability, art, and trying to find happiness. Characters may initially behave differently than in the manga, due to different circumstances, but I hope to remain true to their personalities and complexities.
> 
> Reviews and feedback of any sort are highly appreciated, and I am always open to constructive critique.
> 
> Past tense means a flashback, and the rest of the story is told in present tense. 
> 
> Rewritten August 18, 2014. Original version of this chapter available at deconstructionarchive on tumblr.
> 
> Disclaimer: Fruits Basket is the property of the very talented Natsuki Takaya. This chapter title comes from a song by Tegan and Sara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you for reading my story! This fic intends to explore "what if" questions, showing what could happen if Furuba characters were placed in very different situations. Characters attend a high school in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and there is no zodiac curse. Instead, this story aims to show characters navigating romance, friendship, and familial relationships, and to explore themes of gender, orientation, mental health, dis/ability, art, and trying to find happiness. Characters may initially behave differently than in the manga, due to different circumstances, but I hope to remain true to their personalities and complexities.
> 
> Reviews and feedback of any sort are highly appreciated, and I am always open to constructive critique.
> 
> Past tense means a flashback, and the rest of the story is told in present tense.
> 
> Rewritten August 18, 2014. Original version of this chapter available at deconstructionarchive on tumblr.
> 
> Disclaimer: Fruits Basket is the property of the very talented Natsuki Takaya. This chapter title comes from a song by Tegan and Sara.

Skyscrapers stream past as Hatori drives through the city. Their silver-blue facades bend and shimmer in each others' reflections, and as I look out from the passenger side, I struggle to keep my expression neutral. As though Hatori, even with his eyes on the traffic, will be able to sense my excitement. 

He's always been able to read me, probably the only person who has. Except maybe my father. But that was a long time ago.

"Are we almost there, Tori?" I fight to keep my voice cool, to keep That Woman’s inflection out of me.

His eyes still fixed on the road, he nods. "It’s just a few more blocks."

Red and green and yellow-orange lights sluice over asphalt and concrete, pouring out of vehicles and shop windows and traffic lights and apartments. The city crowds my mind: vibrant signs of hot dog vendors, the gleam of briefcases, parents with small wobbling children. 

My eyes catch on a woman in black. No, a girl — about my age, seventeen. Her outline shakes with energy and laughter at something a friend has said. She holds the leash to a large black dog, and I wonder how she’s allowed to have an animal on the patio of an upscale Italian restaurant. She sits amidst a crowd who look to be in their early twenties. They all wave their hands as though whatever they’re saying is incredibly exciting. But it’s the girl who holds my attention.

Her dark brown hair falls to her shoulder. The sunset shoots red-gold through her edgy bangs, her eyes hidden behind black-sky sunglasses. At her side, her dog listens as her deep red lips move with words I can’t hear. Her black dress stops above her knees, and she's thrown a long black jacket over, matching her high boots. I estimate her to me a bit shorter than me — tall rather than gangling. She doesn’t fold into herself when she sits, doesn’t look like she’s trying to hide. Whatever she’s saying, the words come easily to her. 

A girl like that would never even speak to me. I feel like an alien scientist observing another species. 

I make myself look away. White stripes on the road pass us by.

“There’s the building,” says Hatori. 

It looks like all the others, but something jumps in my chest. 

My new home. I’ll be free. 

The blue-grey glass draws closer. 

-/-/-

"Well, this is it." Hatori holds out the key. I grab it from his fingers and twist it in the lock. The battered door opens and we step inside.

The apartment smells of cleaning, traces of disinfectant and inoffensive, impersonal air-freshener. The bedroom and kitchen directly attach, a closet-sized washroom off to the side. The ceiling is low and the walls yellow-white with age or old smoke. I take off my shoes and let my socks touch the thin blue carpet. Flourescent lights line the ceiling, already flickering. I find an inflatable mattress, a microwave, a grey plastic table, a folding chair. 

Mine.

"How is it?" says Hatori.

"Very good," I say. I try to keep my voice low, level, but I know he's seen through me. 

"I'm glad you like it," he says, and a strange feeling comes over the edges of my lips. I realize it’s a smile. 

I sit down on the mattress and it sinks until I feel the floor beneath me. I flinch — despite trying to eat "normally" the last few weeks, at least in front of my relatives, I'm still bony enough that it hurts to sit on anything hard. I'm proud of this, of course. But it's inconvenient, as though my body is covered in permanent bruises. 

I think back to the people I'd seen walking, and heat rises to the surface of my skin. No one deserves to live in their body that effortlessly. Not when I’ve been trying so hard.

But this time I have a home, I remind myself. I breathe in the soap-smell of the air, and warmth uncurls in my chest. I made it to the city. 

Something glimmers on the wall, and I notice a set of cream-coloured curtains blending in with the paint. Orange shreds of sunset slip through the folds and shine in the carpet fibers. I rise to my feet, push the curtain aside, and look. 

Behind the smeared pane, buildings stretch into a glass and steel forest. Lights spill into the approaching evening; the white and orange squares burn the blue shadow creeping over the city. Down below, cars stretch out of sight, lines of glittering beetles. 

A hand touches my shoulder, and I cringe despite myself. "I got you something," says Tori. "As an apartment-warming gift."

I reach for the small box and unwrap it. I unfurl a cord and set the clock radio on the floor beside the bed. I plug it in and set the time to match the display on my watch: 5:24. I've done nothing all day, but I'm exhausted. 

I flip through the stations, volume at a whisper, then grow bolder. A song with birdlike piano, balanced with the thrum of base, blooms from the speakers. Sound fills the apartment like a substance, air or water. Rhythm hums up through my socks.

"I'm glad you like it," says Hatori. 

"Thanks." I can't look at him. I don't know how to say things like this. "Really."

"It's not a problem," he says, but I don't believe him. 

I wait for him to leave. But when he walks to the door, he says, "Akito? Are you coming?" 

-/-/-

I make sure the door is locked behind me. As we walk, Tori points out restaurants and clothing stores. I find a green belt and a pair of baggy black jeans, making a note to go back and get them when I have a job. But as soon as I mention this, Hatori buys them for me — more apartment-warming gifts. I feel guilty for accepting, and make another note to pay him back in the future. 

He also walks us into restaurants, and I consider whether this whole outing might be a ploy to ruin my routines. 

He knows I hate eating in front of people. I've designed my life so that meals are quiet, private, and constrained by enough rules to keep me under control. Without the rules, I feel like I’ll start eating and never stop.

But I owe him. 

I make up some emergency rules: if I eat slowly, cutting the food in the smallest pieces I can, and force myself to delay between each bite, I can keep control. As I tell myself this, my heartbeat becomes less erratic, though my lungs remain constricted.

I ask Tori questions about his thesis and summer plans and whether Kana is doing any better. My voice comes out faster than I want it to, but he answers in the slightly-less-deadly-serious-than-usual tone that is his version of enthusiasm. As we talk, I consume an egg roll, a bowl of miso soup, and some fries with ketchup. He watches my hands as I saw at the fries with a plastic knife, but he doesn't comment. 

-/-/-

Tori and I got our first girlfriends around the same time. But since he was a seventeen-year-old guy and I was a fourteen-year-old girl, our experiences didn't have much else in common. Well, aside from the fact that they both ended badly and brought even more complications into our lives.

I was in ninth grade, and by this point I had already realized I wasn't "normal." What I was trying to figure out was what exactly that meant.

The other students whispered whenever I walked down the hall. _Is that a boy or a girl?_ I'd hear them laughing. During group assignments, I'd do the whole thing myself to avoid interaction. If my group didn't let me do this, my blood pounded and my vision blurred at the edges. More than once I had to run to the washroom to vomit. Then I'd sit on the cold linoleum and force myself to breath until the black specks cleared from my vision.

I couldn't eat in front of anyone else. It was the same feeling — that I was going to expose myself, whatever it was that was wrong with me. 

At home, That Woman and I alternated between screaming fights and weeks without speaking. She would throw things at me — plates, water glasses. 

She told me it was my fault my father had died.

I hated school. I hated home more.

I wore layered clothes that covered as much of me as possible. It would reduce the number of comments on my weight.

And I was always cold, anyway.

At lunch hour I did homework in empty classrooms. Before and after gym class I waited until the girls’ washroom was empty, then changed in a stall.

Then one day, after I'd changed into sweatpants and two hoodies, she was there. I hadn’t heard her come in. A girl with short, messy blonde hair was applying eyeliner in the mirror. Her reflection looked straight at me. 

I wanted to duck back into the stall, but she'd seen me. If I ran out of the room she might follow. Or tell her friends what I freak I was. 

"Hey." She had the soft, rough voice of the kids who smoked off-campus during lunch hour. "Akito Sohma, right?" 

I'd never seen her before. Why did she know my name? Did people talk about me that much? "Yeah," I said. At least she wasn't freaking out. Not even a _Hey, you're in the wrong bathroom._

I set my clothes down on the counter and washed my hands, trying not to look at her. Failing. Her white-blonde hair was brown at the roots, and she was half a head shorter than I was. I made myself stare at the water frothing over my hands, but I couldn't block out the scent of her. Cigarette smoke, but also flowers. A lavender scent of soap or perfume. Nice.

I felt strange, standing close to her. It scared me because I liked it.

"I'm Nikki," she said. 

"Nice to meet you." I spoke carefully, not letting out what felt like a wild bird slamming against my chest.

"What class do you have?"

"Gym."

She stuck out her tongue. "Lame," she said. My insides crumpled, until I realized she meant the class, not me. 

"Yeah," I said. 

"I really don't want to write this math test. Want to skip together?"

I didn't skip class. I came to school when I was so sick it felt like I was dying. I avoided social situations for homework. "Sure," I said.

No one stopped us as we walked off the grounds. Nikki seemed so confident that, eventually, I stopped looking over my shoulder. We went to a fast food place where I paid for everything and Nikki said she'd pay me back and I said she didn't have to. I ordered a burger, and when I ate it, I think I experienced the same rush Nikki got shoplifting at the next few stores we went to. She took jewelry, socks, pins with band names on them. I offered to pay. The whole collection couldn't have cost more than ten dollars. But she smiled, said I was sweet and that it was okay. 

She was my first friend. 

We met up after school and over lunch break, and the occasional times when she rescued me from gym. We talked. About stupid kids and teachers who were always judging us. About music. About our families. 

I didn't tell her a lot, just that my mom had a lot of problems so it was best if we stayed out of my house. But that was more than I'd told anyone else. When I said this, my throat constricted on the words. Nikki kissed my cheek and said it was okay, we could always go to her house. 

Nikki's friends all kind of looked like her: black clothes, eyeliner, perpetually shrouded in smoke. They were kind to me, though we never really got close. I didn't understand their jokes, and their explosive laughter seemed unnecessary. One of the boys would share vodka he stole from his older sister and the group of them would get drunk. Nikki was always fairly calm, but some of her friends talked frantically, or became suddenly tearful, or just stopped making sense. 

In retrospect, they couldn’t have been as drunk as they seemed. It was an excuse to lose control. But the loss of control was real. With every too-loud laugh or incoherent sentence, I fell back into memories of screaming. Shattering glass. My muscles tensed in preparation for a fight, though I'd never seen her friends violent.

Screaming. Shattering glass. _It’s your fault he’s gone._

I'd make up an excuse to leave, and I'd go for a walk alone beside the fields.

One day when I was walking, I heard steps behind me. I turned to see Nikki run up beside me. "Want some company?" she said. 

She only ever drank a little, chewed gum after to hide the smell. She said her parents would kill her if they found out. A pink tinge glowed under her skin, though that was probably from running. Her words came out perfectly clear. 

"Okay," I said. "Did you have to go home too?"

"Um, I kinda wanted to talk to you, actually." 

"Thanks," I said, which was a stupid response, but she didn't seem to notice. 

"Yeah," she said. She was looking at her feet as she walked. Her black nail polish flashed as she fidgeted with her lighter. "Do you, uh… You like girls, right?" 

My face burned to the point of being painful. She knew what the other students said about me. Of course she knew. I should have dressed differently, worn girl clothes, my comfort was a small thing to lose in exchange for having a friend — and now she knew there was something weird about me, and she was going to leave. 

"Um…" I stared down at my feet too, then let out another "um." As though it wasn't a yes or no question, but an essay I was being asked to compose. "I guess. Why does it matter?"  
"Well, um… I was wondering if you liked me."

I forgot how to move my legs and stopped walking. My brain seemed to have fallen out of my head.

"Yeah," I said, looking at the sidewalk and hoping it would open up to swallow me. 

She touched my hand, and I looked up to see she was smiling. "I like you too." 

The sky poured blue over shimmering fields. She slipped her hand into mine and we walked towards her house, my face on fire the entire time. A few blocks before her neighbourhood, she kissed me goodbye and I marveled how I could ever be unhappy in a world that contained her.

-/-/-

"Isn't it bullshit?" she said one day, after a school assembly. We lay on our backs in the late autumn grass, on a hill equidistant from her house and the school. Hardly anyone else knew about it, so we could be alone here together. The hill offered a panoramic view of the sky above and the town down below. It was starting to get dark, and the tiny houses' lights were going on, white and orange, reflecting on the underbellies of the layered clouds. 

Nikki lay with one hand around my shoulders, the other playing with my hair. I could hear her breathing. She felt warm against me.

Nikki seemed to think a lot of things were bullshit, so I asked what she meant in specific.

"I mean," she said, "like, that whole speech they gave us. About how school prepares us for life. Why do they assume we aren’t living now?”

I thought I knew what she meant. "I don’t get it either,” I said. “Age isn’t the only factor in how smart someone is, or how valid their experiences are.”

“Exactly. We’re fourteen, not stupid.” 

“And it’s not as though everyone the same age has the same life. Though it can be hard to know what’s real sometimes — I mean, in terms of what’s meaningful.”

She kissed me. She tasted like smoke and bubblegum. "This is real," she whispered.

-/-/-

I apply for a job at the bubble tea place in the mall, just because it's close to my apartment and they have a "Now Hiring" sign up. A day later, I get a phone call notifying me that I've been hired and can begin work as soon as possible. 

Two people work the same shift as I — a tiny red-haired junior high girl, and a geeky 15-year-old with blond hair that is always getting in his eyes and in customers' orders. He lives in fear of mispronouncing my name, and thus always refers to me as "sir."

I'm in the middle of taking an order when my cell phone rings. "Just a moment," I tell the redhead as I duck into the back of the shop to answer, although I'm not sure if I should. What if it’s her? I know how unlikely it is That Woman would call me, but my hand shakes as I bring the phone to my ear.

"Akito Sohma speaking."

"Akito, your school just called me." It's Tori.

"Why?" It didn't even start yet. How can I be in trouble already?

"I'm listed as your guardian. They notified me that your transcript has been finalized."

"What does that mean?"

"You can start attending classes as soon as you're ready. They've emailed you your schedule."

"As soon as I'm ready… so, on Monday?"

"If you wish."

I never would have expected it, but in the time I've been in the city I've actually been… lonely. I spend my non-working hours wandering downtown, looking at food I can’t eat and clothes I can't afford to buy, or I stay in my apartment, listening to the radio and reading books from the library. At the thought of school, a rush of unrealistic possibilities floods my mind — friends. University. Normalcy.

"I'll go. Thanks, Tori."

"You're welcome."

"I've got to get back to work."


	2. II: Consequence of Sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akito meets Tohru Honda... and her best friend, Kyo, who is not Akito's biggest fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title comes from a song by Regina Spektor. Chapter rewritten August 25, 2014 — original version available at deconstructionarchive dot tumblr dot com.

**Kyo**

_"Oh, hello Kyo-kun. Please, come in. Tohru! Kyo-kun is here!"_

_"Thanks, Honda-san."_ My tongue stumbles on the Japanese, but Tohru's grandfather smiles.

"Coming!" Tohru calls. A moment later, she and Chella bound down the stairs.

"Hey," I say as she pulls me into a hug. I'm not a touchy-feely guy, but I embrace her back.

Chella sniffs my sneaker and I lean down to pet her. Her blackwet eyes narrow blissfully as I scratch behind her ears.

"You're sure it's okay I pet her?"

"Sure! She's off-duty so she knows it's okay. And she likes you."

I grin, remembering when Chella was a puppy and the trainer brought her over. Within ten seconds, the Labrador retriever had gotten her head stuck in my winter boot and was whimpering in the doorway while I tried to help her out, all the while wondering why anyone would trust this dog to guide them. Two years later, she actually seems… professional. She looks straight-ahead as she walks, pays no attention to anyone who could distract her. Except at home, of course. I give her a treat from my pocket and her tail whips so rapidly I visualize her lifting into the air like a helicopter.

Tohru and I head out the door, wishing goodbye to her grandpa and Chella. Mr. Honda tells us to have a good time in class, and invites me for dinner after school. _"You haven't come over in a while,"_ he says. _"We all missed you very much."_

 _"Thanks,"_ I say, hoping the heat of my embarrassment doesn't show. _"I'll try to make it. I've been busy lately."_

He nods, and I regret lying, though I don't know how else I could have explained it. Sick? That's not really right, either.

Sometimes it's hard for me to be around people. It's like… my brain fills with these clouds. Colours dim, and sound filters out as though I'm holding my ears underwater. My body doesn't feel attached to me. The whole time, everyone around me just goes on talking – about school, or work, or their day, and I just… don't get it. The whole world becomes a tv show I'm only half-paying attention to.

And when I really force myself to pay attention, the only thing I can think of is how little the scene would change if I wasn't in it.

"How is your comic going?" says Tohru. I jolt back to the present. We're crossing the street. Telephone wires hum in the autumn air. It's over now. All good.

"Not bad," I say. "I should be able to finish by winter break."

"That's amazing!" she says. I smile. She's the only one who can say stuff like that and not come off as patronizing.

"What about you?" I say. "How's the screenplay?"

"Good!" she says. "I worked out some of the backstory and changed the setting to make more sense with the characters' personalities. And I found new songs for the scene transitions!"

"Awesome," I say.

Tohru doesn't want anyone to read her screenplays until they're done, but she let me read one scene for my birthday last year. It was good – the screenplay didn't have a lot of visual cues, but the weird thing was, it didn't feel like an absence. As the characters talked, surrounded by wind in the leaves, sparrow-songs, traffic, the bass of faraway speakers… It was the opposite of that foggy, hollowed-out feeling I get sometimes. After I read it, life felt more solid.

"I can't wait to read it," I say. "How much do you have left to write?"

She thinks for a moment. Above the school, the November sky shines grey-white. The air smells of traffic and decaying leaves. "About three-quarters," she says.

"Oh," I say. Trying to cover up my surprise, I add, "Well, I'm sure it will be worth the wait when it's done."

Tohru has been working on these things since I met her, but she's still never come close to finishing one. It's not like she's lazy, either – whenever I text her she's writing, or coming up with ideas to write about.

I guess she just wants it to be perfect.

"Thanks!" she says, with a big smile.

-/-/-  
 **  
Akito**

The weekend before school starts, I have trouble sitting still. I walk up and down the downtown streets, learn the locations of landmarks, make notes of the bus routes. After a few days in the city, it seems no smaller. I lose myself in an ocean of department stores and fast food restaurants, only minutes from my apartment. But as I dissolve into crowds of business people and shaggy-haired teenagers, my heartbeat remains — mostly — steady.

On the train, I sit by the window and watch bare trees scratch at the sky. Though an occasional stranger gives me a look, most are too tired from work or school to let their gaze linger. I don't get the same what are you? stares as I did back home; the eyes that force themselves under skin and prod at jawbone, cheekbone, collarbone, sternum, searching for clues. _Are you a boy or a girl?_

Here, no one deconstructs me. I ride the bus, then eat yogurt and vegetables alone in my apartment. Nobody knows I exist.

Come Monday, I make my way to Ernest Kaibara Senior High, climbing the steps through backpacks and chatter. As the double doors enfold me, the crowd magnifies tenfold.

The hallways swarm. Between brightly-patterned posters, students' mouths spill white noise. It's as though I'm listening to twenty different radio stations, all loud enough to rattle the bones of my skull. Strangers jostle against my shoulders, I can feel their eyes on me... I think I'm going to be sick.

I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my black hoodie. Their gazes scrape over me and I want to curl into myself, shrink out of reality. Sound crashes down, wave after wave, incoherent, drowning me out.

I force my spine upright, make my legs move. Left, right. Search for room 158. Left, right. Pass by 152, 154, 156…

And then 161. I scan the walls, turn back, try to retrace my steps but can't push through the pulsating crowd. My body can't get enough oxygen. I inhale, lungs straining, but it's not enough. The air darkens and pixelates. The white noise amplifies, splinters in my head. I take a step and my legs fold. Something warm and dark touches my face.

"H-hey. Yo, are you okay?"

I look up and slowly register that I've fallen — directly into a boy with bright orange hair. I realize I'm leaning against his black t-shirt. I move so quickly I almost jump.

"Fine," I say. My voice comes out more aggressive than I intend, and rather than correct myself, I go with it. "You should watch where you're going."

He looks blank. Then, his face tightens. "What's your problem? You fell on me!"

"You should have been more careful," I counter, hiding the weakness of my argument behind a cold tone. Of course I've lost my self-control already. Why did I think things would be any different here?

His eyes glare a fiery amber. My ears pound as I glower back.

Then he turns, and I realize I'm disappointed. No fight. No release. "Whatever," he says, "I don't waste my time on people like you."

I urge my legs to move towards class, then remember I still don't know where it is. I think for half of a second and come to the conclusion that no, I don't have any better ideas. He can thank That Woman's DNA for this little mood swing.

"Wait," I say, catching up to him. "Do you know where room 158 is?"

He looks into my face, his expression unreadable. Or at least, I can't read it. He turns, then strides away. After a moment, he jerks his head back. "You comin'?" I have to jog to keep up.

He leads us through a pair of unnumbered doors, and we emerge in a small hallway. Numbers 157 through 160 glimmer on the doors in tarnished gold.

"Thanks," I say as he starts to walk away.

"Yeah, sure," he says.

On impulse, I say, "What's your name?"

"Kyo Sohma," he replies, without looking back.

-/-/-

Hatori and I had always been close. When we were children, he kept me company during family reunions, amongst relatives I barely knew. His family lived a few blocks away and I envied his house, with the lawns mowed and the paint never peeling, his stacks of books, the saran-wrapped baked goods on his family's counter. When That Woman got worse and his parents stopped taking him to visit us, he came on his own.

Hatori always asked how I was, and I always said I was fine. But he was annoyingly perceptive, and made sure I was out of the house whenever That Woman had a particularly bad episode. Sometimes I called him, feigning casual as I asked if he was busy. But mostly he just knew. Maybe he'd asked one of the neighbours to notify him when they heard shouting. I never found out for sure.

I always looked forward to seeing him. My mother's outbursts happened so often that I wasn't particularly phased by her yelling or breaking things, but I appreciated that Hatori cared enough to invite me out of the house. And besides, it was a good feeling to be able to talk to someone without having to hide anything. I avoided the topic of That Woman, and the degree to which school stressed me out, but that was because I didn't want him to worry, not because I thought he'd judge me — or worse, interfere and make things worse.

I made up my mind to tell him about Nikki. I'd spent weeks rehearsing the conversation, playing through every possible outcome until I fell asleep — which took a long time, my heart striking my chest until it seemed to rise in my throat. I wasn't really sure why I was so scared — this was Tori. He'd always been here, no matter how odd I could be.

But I'd never met anyone like… whatever I was. Nikki openly referred to herself as bisexual, but I cringed whenever I tried to apply a label to me. Lesbian, or trans, or even gay... they weren't words I could associate with our small town, much less a member of the Sohma family. I felt guilty just for thinking them, then angry at myself for feeling guilty.

The day I made up my mind to tell him, I sat across from Tori in an Italian restaurant so expensive I felt like an impostor just by being inside. I ordered a glass of water, and he ordered far too much food, evidently hoping I would eat some. I could feel my pulse in my damp hands, and when the water came I struggled to swallow even that.

"So," I managed, thanks to years of practice speaking over the lump in my throat, "is anything new in your life?" Sadly, it had taken me weeks to construct this conversation starter.

"Yes, actually," he replied after a moment. "I met a girl at work." Tori worked part-time at the hospital in order to gain experience. He planned to go on to medical school after he graduated. "Her name is Kana. We've been going out."

A few girls had asked Hatori out before, but he was always too busy with work or school to get involved with them. It was hard for me to imagine him dating anybody, and as I wondered what made this girl so special, a chill crept over me. What if he wasn't there for me anymore? What if he forgot me for this girl, abandoned me to That Woman?

And then the cold turned fiery, and I worried it would snap through my tongue and attack him. That I'd lose control the way I did around That Woman, the way that made me hate myself.

I bit back the fire. If I lost control, he'd leave me for sure. I smiled past the stone in my throat. "That's great," I said. "What's she like?"

"Her name is Kana. She's also studying to be a doctor. She's travelled extensively, I'm sure you'd find her stories interesting."

"She's Japanese?" I asked. Her name sounded to be, but it was rare to meet anyone non-white in our town.

"Third-generation Canadian, but yes, her grandparents immigrated."

"How long have you been seeing her?"

"It will be three weeks tomorrow."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to make sure it was going well, first."

"So it's going well, then? You're happy with her?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm very glad I met her." His mouth and eyes smiled without him even trying.

"That's good," I said, leaning back in my chair — I hadn't realized I was sitting forward, muscles tensed. "I'm happy for you."

"Thank you," he said. "You've seemed happier lately, too. Did something good happen?"

"Yes," I said. He continued to smile softly. I made myself breathe. It's just a few syllables, take them into your lungs and push them out, just move your mouth. "I've been seeing someone, too. A… a girl from school. We're going out."

He nodded. I waited for his smile to break, but it didn't. I briefly wondered if he'd heard me.

"What is she like?" The same question I'd asked him.

"She's… amazing. Her name is Nikki, I don't know anyone else like her, she's just… she makes me happy when I'm around her."

"I'm glad. It's nice to see you happy, Akito."

The food arrived. I ate an eighth of Hatori's pizza, measuring out the calories so as not to ruin the evening.

We didn't talk much as we ate. It seemed like everything to say had been said, and besides, I was very tired.

-/-/-

"Oh? Are you the new transfer student?"

She's one of those young teachers. Dressed in a lacy jacket, an elaborate skirt and striped leggings, she's got no interest in looking authoritative. Her sugar-high mannerisms lead me to conclude she's either faking or brain damaged, because no one is that happy.

She's the kind of teacher who tries to be friends with the students, not realizing that such a friendship is the last thing most of us want.

"Yes," I say, as I turn back to drawing the self-portrait she assigned.

Rather than take the hint, she comes closer. I try to keep my eyes on my paper and the small mirror on the desk, but the gleam of light off her huge glasses keeps my eyes from focusing. "Ooh, can I see your drawing? Wow, that's really good!"

I continue my pencil work, add some shading to the hair.

"I'm Mine, or Miss Kuramae if you're more comfortable with that. You're Akito Sohma, right?"

I nod.

"Come up to the front of the room, I'll introduce you to the class!"

"No, thank you," I say.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well, just let me know if you change your mind." She smiles and retreats behind her desk, humming to herself as she scribbles some kind of outfit design.

I turn back to my drawing. After attacking the page with a smudge stick and fine-point pencil, I've got the shadows and textures pretty much right. But the mouth is too thin, the skin too pale. Dark spots mar the eyes, but the cheeks look immature, childish. The hair is messy. It looks like…

I don't know. Like me.

-/-/-

When the bell rings, I head towards language arts class, which is, thankfully, easier to find. The teacher doesn't make the same fuss about my arrival, simply approaches me at my desk and asks if I'm caught up on the material. When I say yes, he lets me be.

The bell rings for lunch, and the students funnel through the door back into the hall. I grab my backpack and try to disengage as I walk. The crowd is even thicker than this morning, and I'm amazed by the effort people put into conforming to stereotypes. Students seem to clump together with others who look pretty much the same. Are all high schools like this? A group of football players walk by, laughing and shoving each other. The last boy, tall and thin with purple-grey hair and carrying a helmet under his arm, trails silently behind.

"Akito!"

I look over my shoulder to see Ms. Kuramae running towards me. A teacher, running in the halls. She flashes her clichéd grin. "How has your — morning been?" she says, out of breat. I wonder how far she ran to catch up.

"It was fine."

"Only fine?"

"Good enough."

She gives what she must think is an understanding smile. I wonder if all her expressions are variations of smiles. "High school can be a rough time. But they're good kids here, I'm sure you'll fit in if you give it a chance."

Where did she get the idea I wanted to fit in?

She continues, "Have you seen the cafeteria?"

"No."

"I'll show you! You must be starving by now." She continues to ramble on, holding a conversation by herself.

When we reach the cafeteria, I have to do a double-take. Seated at a table, with the same orange-haired boy, is the girl with the dog I saw downtown. She's replaced her sunglasses with regular glasses with thick white frames, and her dress with a red shirt and faded jeans. She's tied her hair back in a lilac ribbon. I want to get closer to her, to make out the details — the texture of her hair, her facial features, the curves of her body under her clothes.

The boy glares up at me as though he can read my thoughts.

Miss Kuramae must notice me looking, because she exclaims, "Do you know them? Kyo Sohma and Tohru Honda?"

"I know him."

"Oh, right! You two have the same last name! Are you related?"

"I doubt it. It's a common name. We may be distant cousins."

She laughs. "I'm sorry, I don't know as much about Japanese culture as you might expect. I only really follow the fashion trends. Have you ever been over there?"

"No." I've never even been out of the province.

She leads us towards the table. "Kyo, you know Akito?"

He looks up from his pizza long enough to fix me with another glower. "We've met."

Furthering my theory of possible brain damage, Miss Kuramae cheers, "That's great!" She gestures to the girl and says, "Akito, this is Tohru. Tohru, Akito. He's new to our school."

"Nice to meet you," I say.

Tohru smiles at me, and unlike with Miss Kuramae, I actually appreciate the gesture. "You too, Akito! Please, come sit with us. I hope we can be good friends."

I feel as though I'm impersonating someone better than myself, like she wouldn't show this hospitality if she really knew me. Still, a golden heat spreads through my body; the dreamlike thought that she actually likes me.

Miss Kuramae examines her work, obviously pleased. "I'll leave you guys to talk. Have a wonderful lunch!"

As soon as she's out of earshot, Kyo stands up and pulls me aside by the fabric of my hoodie.

"Leave Tohru alone."

I look back to see her eating a slice of pizza. She doesn't seem to notice what's going on, and Kyo speaks too low for her to hear from this distance.

"Why?" I say, knowing the answer is unlikely to bring me any satisfaction.

"If you want to cause problems for me, I can deal with it. But Tohru deserves better."

He studies my face. He must like what he sees, because the corner of his mouth crinkles upwards and he releases his grip on my hoodie. The chains on his camouflage pants clank with each step as he walks back to Tohru.

When I get back to the table, I make up an excuse that I need to hand in some forms — I'm not stupid enough to spend my time around a guy who would jump at any excuse to beat me up. But as Tohru wishes me goodbye and says she hopes we see each other again soon, I reply, "I'm sure we will."

Regardless of Kyo, I have no intention of lying.


	3. III: Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationships problems come to a head between Nikki and Akito. Kyo tries to keep Akito away from Tohru, but Tohru runs into Akito at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a song by The Dresden Dolls. Chapter warning for parental abuse and fairly detailed disordered eating. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Constructive feedback is always appreciated!

**Akito**

The library seems to be more of a place for computers than books. Rows of teenagers stare into screens, their faces bathed in bluish light. Behind them, the middle-aged librarian bores his eyes into the backs of their heads.

Other than that, I'm alone. My breathing slows. I glance down at my hands. Steady.

I walk between book cases and feel myself relax. Two more classes to get through – athletic advancement and chemistry. Since I did advanced coursework in my previous school, chemistry should be no problem. The word "athletic," on the other hand, sets off a red flag. I'll talk with the teacher and see if I can transfer out. For now, I'd rather not think about it.

I press deeper into the labyrinth of shelves. Colourful new arrivals fade into threadbare hardcovers and frail paperbacks. I run my fingers over their cracked spines and draw trails in the layers of dust. The air smells of old paper. As I walk, the computers dwindle to staccato tapping and the whiir of fans.

I pick up a book entitled _Chemistry_ , but put it back when I see the yellowed pages are filled with poetry. Not my thing.

Amongst the back shelves, I startle at a group of teenagers I hadn't noticed. A half-dozen students, including the silver-haired boy from the football team, congregate in a circle, talking in hushed voices. With jagged, uneven haircuts, all black clothes, and an aura of sketchiness, they remind me of Nikki's friends. The way the librarian shoots them a warning glance strengthens this resemblance.

I briefly entertain the idea of approaching them. _Hey guys, what's up? It's been a while._

I decide on a book about photography, not sure why or even if I'll bother to read it. But I feel like since I came here, I should get something out it.

"Student ID card?" The librarian's tone implies I'm an idiot for not already having it out.

"I don't think I have one. I'm new here."

His manner doesn't soften. "It will be in the student information packet they gave you upon arrival."

As I rifle through my backpack, he taps his fingers on his desk. Like I'm wasting his precious time, even though there's no one in line behind me. I manage to find the card, flashing my most irritating smile as I hand it over.

He (grudgingly) runs it through the machine, then hands it back to me along with the photography book.

I examine the card as I walk towards English class. My face stares back at me from the photo. The lighting turns my skin from pale to green, and hair falls in black strikes across my eyes. My mouth a straight line, I look aggravated and alien.

Beside the picture, capitals spell out "ERNEST KAIBARA SENIOR HIGH" followed by a birth date seventeen years ago. Beneath that, there's one more line of text.

"AKITO SOHMA GENDER: F"

F. Like a failing grade.

I shove the card deep in a hidden pocket of my jacket, pull up the zipper, and hope I'll never have to undo it.

From now on, I'll get my books from the public library.

-/-/-

I kissed her. She pulled away.

Nikki looked over her shoulder, down the winter-mud-spattered hallway. There was no one there, obviously. We were supposed to be in class.

"Akito, I can't keep doing this." Water shone in the red rims of her eyelids.

At first I wasn't sure what she meant. Kissing in the halls? Skipping class? Since when did she care?

Then it sunk into my stomach like a fist, and my lungs locked.

"Why?" I said. It was hard to talk – like the air got stuck in my throat.

"It's not you, Akito. You're wonderful." She hugged me, but it wasn't affectionate. It was like she needed something to hold her up. I kept my arms stiff at my sides. "My parents, they'd disown me if they found out. They're old fashioned, they don't understand… this."

"What does it matter what they think? You're always complaining about them, anyway." My voice sounded angry to me. Did I feel angry? My skin squirmed as though my insides were too big for it. My limbs didn't feel like my own – like if I stopped concentrating on them, I'd lose control. Like the next time I opened my mouth, I might start screaming and not be able to stop.

"But they're my parents. I love them, and now every time I see them, I feel like I'm lying." Tears broke free from her eyelashes. Eyeliner crumbled down her cheeks in slimy trails. "It scares me. If we stop now… it will be… if we… Any longer, it will hurt too much. I'm only fifteen. I'm not ready for anything that serious."

What right did she have, to complain about her parents, compared to what I lived through every day? Was the whole thing a joke, pretending she understood? We were going to build a new world together. We were going to make it out of here. We were going to be happy.

I would have done anything for her. Now we weren't serious? Then what the hell was the point of this? Killing time? Practicing for when she met someone she actually liked?

"Akito–"

I shoved her off of me. "Get away from me! You have no right to touch me! Don't you dare act like I'm your friend, I can't even stand to look at you!"

I must have been shouting, but it was like my ears were blocked, or I was yelling into a vacuum, nothing to carry my voice to my ears. But I know what I said. The words left burning stains from my lips to deep inside my chest.

Nikki froze. The paralytic fear, like I'd hit her, or was going to. For some reason this pissed me off. Like she thought I could hurt her worse than she'd hurt me.

(I knew I could. Knew I was capable of everything That Woman could do, that there were monsters inside me I had to lock away. Every time Nikki had made me feel like I was better than that had been a lie. Now we both knew it.)

She might have called something after me. I don't know. I was too angry to hear. I know she didn't follow as I walked out of the school. She probably didn't see that as soon as the door closed behind me, I broke into a sprint.

I have never been athletic, but by the time the static in my eyes died down enough that I could see where I was, it wasn't anywhere I recognized. The ice on the trail had been hammered into thick white-grey sheets by countless footsteps. Frost bit into my skin; it was satisfying, like digging my nails into my palms, or being so hungry it hurt. Like it would be satisfying to hit someone you hate.

The pathways were empty. The sky was the same colour as the dirty snow.

I slid on the ice and slammed to the gravel. My jeans tore and my knee bled through. It was bright, bright red. Warm.

Then the world tilted. I vomited stomach acid onto the snow.

I brushed pebbles from my knee and the heels of my hands, then stood up, shaking. I stumbled, then continued running.

When I finally stopped, the sky was navy blue, leaking pigment across the flat fields. Across the farmland, I could see the road. If I walked through those fields, I would no longer be in my hometown. But that didn't mean much.

I didn't want the edge of town. I wanted the edge of the world.

If I had been there, right at that moment, at the edge of the world, I probably would have jumped. Just for the possibility of landing in another place where everything was different.

I turned around. Breathing hard, I began to walk home.

When I got there, That Woman had already gone to sleep. I pushed my desk in front of my door, as I did every night in case she woke up and tried to get in. I collapsed on my bed, shivering. The cold had finally sunk in; I doubted I would ever be warm again. If I hadn't been so tired, I probably wouldn't have fallen asleep.

But I was tired. I curled into bruises and scrapes, the sharp and soft edges of a body that would never be small enough. I fell asleep in the clothes I'd worn all day, feeling dirty.

-/-/-

**Kyo**

The bell rings that lunch break is over. I hug Tohru goodbye, then head towards the gym and wait. I'm not looking forward to the conversation coming, but someone's gotta do it. And to be honest, there's a kind of satisfaction in knowing that something's about to piss you off.

Like clockwork, he steps down the hall. Tries to walk past me like I'm not even there. I block him in the doorway.

"Watch it, rat boy."

His eyes narrow. Glares at me through ridiculous red contacts, under his ridiculous rat-coloured hair. I don't even know why it agitates me. When you can't stand someone, everything they do becomes a pain. This guy could eat a sandwich and find a way to make it douchey.

"Will you move?" he says, more threat than question.

"What gives you the right to tell me what to do?"

"What do you want?"

"Tell your new emo to stay away from Tohru."

"My new _what?_ "

"The new kid. Wears all black, skinny Asian guy with his hair in his eyes. Looks like one of your crowd."

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

"Well, if you see him, just... keep him away. I don't trust that guy."

"And I should care why?"

"You shouldn't trust him either. He's got a bad temper."

Yuki gives me a look.

"Arg, whatever." I turn and stomp away. I tried. If the new kid is stupid enough to cause trouble, I can handle it myself.

-/-/-

**Akito**

"Nice to meet you, Akito. I'm Ms. Shiraki. So, why did you sign up for athletic advancement?"

Ms. Shiraki is tall, her light hair tied back in a ponytail. Even in gym clothes, she looks dignified and serious. I stand in front of her in my jeans and two hoodies, suddenly aware how bad my posture is. Footsteps thunder through the room as the other students run laps.

"I didn't have a lot of control over my schedule, to be honest. I was wondering if I could have your permission to transfer out."

She frowns. "Hm. I think the drama students are already started on their final project. You could take journalism... Do you have your three gym credits completed?"

Shit. "No."

She nods. "I'm afraid you can't graduate without them. This class may be your best option."

She must catch my expression, because she adds, "It may look intimidating, but you won't be compared to the other students. Your mark is calculated based on improvements in your own performance."

"Okay," I say flatly.

"You know, if you have the right attitude, you can get a lot out of this class."

I nod and refrain from comment.

She assigns me a locker in the change room and writes down a combination. I fold the strip of paper and zip it in the same pocket as my ID card.

"You can sit out today's class, but bring a change of clothes tomorrow."

I sit on the stage while everyone else runs in circles. I take the photography book from my backpack as I wait for the hour and a half to pass.

It's more interesting than I expected – I open to a page where a red station wagon runs through a puddle, a spray of droplets frozen in air above the deep black asphalt. On the next page, a preteen girl leans against a graffiti-spattered wall, eating an apple. Freckles cover her face and arms. She wears a pale-pink hijab, and her green-brown eyes look directly into the camera. On the opposite page, a bicycle lies on a yellow lawn before the peeling paint of a house. Sunrise strikes the rusted spokes and glows gold.

How does someone catch moments like that? They're ordinary scenes, but I can't stop looking. How can a stationary image seem more real than actual life?

"What book is that?"

I look up, and my eyes meet the startlingly red ones of a boy my own age. The same boy from the library, and the football team. A streak of violet glows in his grey-purple hair. He's still wearing a black shirt, but he's exchanged the rest of his outfit for running shoes and a pair of shorts the same colour as his eyes.

I must be staring, because he points at his ruby irises. "Contacts. They're naturally grey."

"Why are you talking to me?"

"You looked lonely. I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm Yuki."

"Akito. It's a book about photography."

"Interesting?"

"Sort of."

He climbs onto the stage and sits down next to me. I resist the urge to move away.

"Why aren't you running?" I say.

"It's my turn to rest. Only one person from a group sprints at a time."

I look up and see he's telling the truth. I can't think of anything to add to the conversation, so I turn back to my book. The page depicts a battered pair of running shoes dangling on a powerline. The sky glows a fiery blue in the background.

Yuki doesn't take the hint. "So why did you decide to take this class?"

"I didn't have a choice."

"Ah. What would you rather be doing?"

"Something else."

"It's not usually like this, you know – the sprinting. Usually it's more laid back, games and that sort of thing."

I stare at him. "Why are you trying to reassure me?"

He shrugs. "I heard you had a run-in with Kyo this morning. I wanted you to know not everyone here is an idiot."

I turn back to the photograph of running shoes. Our mutual dislike for Kyo doesn't make him any less annoying.

Yuki's turn to run comes, and he jumps down from the stage. He doesn't come back to talk.

-/-/-

The next few weeks after we'd broken up (read: she dumped me with no warning), Nikki completely avoided me. If she saw me in the hall, she suddenly became very interested in the floor. I knew I couldn't blame her after what I'd said, but I couldn't believe how empty I felt. A part of me was gone.

After school, when I would have been with her, I walked. For hours I trekked the frostbitten fields while the sun arced overhead, ice-white and distant.

I was kneeling at my locker, sorting through textbooks one morning, when I heard a voice. "Hey." I looked up, but she didn't meet my eyes.

"Hi," I said.

"How is it going?" Nikki looked smaller than I remembered. Her hands in her pockets and her shoulders slouched, it was like she had shrunk. Behind her black eyeliner, I suddenly noticed how young she looked.

"Fine." I finished zipping my books into my bag. "You?"

When I turned around, she was gone.

I had lived without her once, I reminded myself. I could do it again.

I was fine.

A few nights later, I lay in bed with the sheets wrapped around me, keeping out the late evening cold as I filled in a chem workbook. Next year's curriculum – just because Nikki wasn't going with me didn't mean I wasn't going to get out of this town. I planned to take my exams early and finish high school as fast as I could.

There was a thud on the door. My breath froze in my throat.

"Akito! Open up!"

I stayed as still as I could. Forced myself to breathe. Slow. Soundless.

"Open up NOW, or you're never getting out!" That Woman continued to batter the door, but my desk held in place.

_Inhale. Exhale. Slowly._

I wished Hatori were around. We could walk by the irrigation ditch, or go to the Japanese restaurant. I could order boiled spinach. When he came back from his trip out of town, I could ask him if he wanted to go. I'd order boiled spinach and a diet coke. I would eat the lemon that came with the coke, one segment at a time. I pictured the bright sting of flavour: a high, sharp note against my tongue, blotting out hunger.

The pounding ceased. Gradually, my breathing became automatic.

I filled in the workbook. Hours slipped by, until I couldn't see the words anymore. As I stood to turn on the light, a wave of dizziness crashed over me. My vision jumbled with black sparks.

I'd skipped breakfast that day, and rarely ate lunch. Without Nikki or Hatori around, I had no reason to eat dinner. I ran the calculations, feeling a glow of power – I hadn't eaten since breakfast yesterday.

I knew it wasn't sustainable. That soon as I got a taste of anything, my body would suddenly realize how hungry I was. I would hurt, and I would binge, and I would hate myself. But right now, I felt clean. I felt strong. Like I had the willpower to become a different person, someone with a new body and a new mind.

I also felt incredibly nauseous.

I set aside my textbook, curled into myself to dull the spasms in my stomach, and tried to sleep. But now I couldn't stop thinking about food. I'd be half asleep, and thoughts about food would turn into dreams. I'd jolt awake as I took the first bite of chocolate cake, or a deep-fried pastry, or a salt and vinegar chip, and my teeth closed on nothing.

I finally decided to just give in and go to the kitchen. I'd just eat one bowl of cereal. I'd do it calmly. Then I would clean everything up perfectly, like it had never happened.

Of course, I wouldn't stop at one bowl. But that's what I told myself I would do, and if I hadn't managed to convince myself it was true, I never would have left the room.

I moved the desk, careful not to make a sound. If I woke her up, I was screwed. I turned the doorknob and pulled.

Nothing happened. Something was resisting me, pulling back on the door so it didn't move. I gave a hard yank, and the door budge a couple centimeters, then snapped right back.

My throat closed. Was she actually going to leave me in here? Would I really starve to death? If I had to, I could break my window, jump down onto the lawn, and run –

Where? I doubt I could even survive the fall. The glass would cut into my skin and the fall shatter my knees, and she'd hear me scream and I'd have no way to escape and and and and –

I hadn't realized, but I was still pulling on the door. I wasn't even being quiet anymore; I slammed it back and forth, almost ripping it from its hinges.

And then it opened. That Woman stood before me, holding one end of a piece of rope in her hands. The other end was tied to the doorknob of the washroom, across from my own room. That's how she'd locked me in. She'd tied the doorknobs together.

"Now we're going to talk," she said. I walked past her into the kitchen and ran a glass of water from the tap, listening to the sound of the liquid as it traveled through the pipes. "Akito, I've been hearing some things about you from the other parents. I need you to tell me they're not true."

Her referring to herself as a parent was a joke and a half. Even though she was my mother, it wasn't like she did any actual parenting. She was just a person who happened to live in the same house I did.

I wondered which "other parents" she could have interacted with – she wouldn't even walk to the grocery store across the street. I'd done all our shopping for over a year.

I switched the tap off and brought the glass to my lips. The water was cold and faintly chlorinated. I held it in my mouth before swallowing, careful to notice the taste. _It's like soda._

"Akito!" she said sharply.

"What?"

"You never come home until late at night. Who are you spending your time with?"

"Nobody."

"I know that isn't true!" The knuckles of her left hand whitened where she gripped the countertop. Her eyes gleamed, pooled in four A.M. shadows. "I phoned your school. They said you've been missing classes. That you've been spending time with bad people."

I slammed my glass down on the counter, water leaping onto the linoleum and my hand. "Why does it matter to you? It's not like you care about anything else in my life!"

She picked something up off the uncleared table and threw it at me. I ducked, just milliseconds before it hit the wall and exploded into fragments. White shards rained down on the floor. It had been a plate. I made a mental note to be careful on my way out not to step on the splinters.

"I want you to stop seeing these friends of yours. People are going to make assumptions." Shows how little she knew. People already made assumptions, and had been doing so for years. "You better not be up to anything inappropriate." She said the words like they tasted bad. "Do you want people to think you're like that?"

Like that. Other. What a stupid way to classify people. Either you're Like Us or Like That.

"And what if they do?" I challenge.

She slapped me, and this time she didn't miss. My cheek stung like it an electric shock, and the sound and feeling of the hit echoed in my head. "Just be glad your father can't see you like this." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

I shoved her away. She stumbled, then crashed to the floor, cursing. "Akito!"

I ran for the door, stepped half-into my shoes and was out. I ran blindly through the dim glow of streetlights, my shoes nearly falling off.

I ran until cold air left my throat tasting of blood. I collapsed onto a bench, fixed my runners, and considered my situation.

I couldn't go back. But where else was there? The sun would be up soon, and then I'd just be some girl in the park, dressed in an oversized shirt and boxers. Some stupid fourteen-year-old runaway. who hadn't even planned it out enough to change into day clothes.

If I stayed out here, she was going to find me, or someone else from the family would. They'd send me back.

There was only one other place I could even consider going.

And that's how I ended up standing outside in my pajamas at four A.M., ringing the doorbell to my ex-girlfriend's house.

-/-/-

Athletic advancement and annoying art teachers aside, I seem to have pretty good classes.

Chemistry is uneventful. Yuki sits at the front, headphones on as he fills out his worksheet and I focus on my own. After school, I take the bus to my apartment and phone Hatori. It goes to voicemail.

"Hi. Just finished my first day of school. It's going well. I'm going to work now. Please phone me when you have a chance."

At work, I scoop pearls, mango pulp, almond flavour, matcha powder, getting into a rhythm. The sounds of conversation blur into a wave of white noise, pulsing against me like warm, heavy water. I make myself focus on the colours of the tea, the movement of my arms. After a few days of this, I'm getting to the point where the noise is more annoying than physically painful. Purple pearls, orange mango, white almond, green matcha. I can almost tune it out.

I don't talk with my coworkers except to forward orders or help them with the machines, but that's normal. They talk to each other about school and their social lives, but I don't join in, except to glare at Sean or Shane or whatever the long-haired guy's name is when he refers to a classmate as "so gay". He blushes under his blond hair, apologizes.

"Hey. Can we please get two mango bubble teas?" I turn to see the customer. He's a couple years older than me, with blue square-framed glasses, long light-brown hair and a beard. His clothing is an odd mix of very expensive and made-it-myself – a pink dress shirt over a white t-shirt that he seems to have drawn a large tic-tac-toe board and played a game on in permanent marker.

My rib cage clenches as I see the girl standing beside him. More specifically, holding his hand.

"Tohru…" I say. I don't know what I was intending to say after that, or if I even intended to say it out loud, so I trail off.

"Oh! Hi, Akito!" she says. "Akito, this is my friend Daniel." Friend? That's a good sign, right? Is it normal for people who are just friends to hold hands?

"How's it going, man?" says Daniel.

"Okay," I say as he starts shaking my hand.

"Only okay?" His green eyes widen in concern.

"I'm well," I say, breaking off the handshake that seems intended to go on forever.

"Would you like to come hang out with us when you're done work?" says Tohru.

My lungs are so tight I can barely breathe. Of course I would.

But I work another three hours.

"I'd like that, but I don't get off until nine."

"The schedule changed." I look behind me for the source of the quiet voice. The red-haired junior high girl looks up at me. "The boss said you finish at six today."

"Oh, um, that's great. Sure." I smile at Tohru. "I'll see you in seven minutes then."

"Great!" says Tohru. She smiles too, and heat prickles at my face.

"We'll just be over at that table," says Daniel, pointing. Tohru and him thank me as I hand them their bubble teas, and they walk away – still holding hands, I notice with a cringe.

"The schedule didn't change, did it?" I ask the junior high girl.

She shakes her head, a hint of a smile in her wide amber eyes. "No. But I can take over your shift."

"Why?"

She gives a small shrug. "You seemed... happy. When you saw her. It was nice."

"Oh. Thanks," I say. I glance at her nametag – Kisa. "Are you sure you're okay working the late shift?"

"It's okay. Have fun on your date!"

I decide not to respond to that.


	4. IV: Put It Out For Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akito spends a day at the mall with Tohru, meets Ritsu, Haru, and Rin, and remembers childhood with Ren and Akira. Kyo struggles with the loss of his mother and with his own depression issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Happy Hannukkah/Christmas/Kwanzaa/Solstice (I am Jewish but strongly support any occasion to have a party). Thank you for the kudos on past chapters, and I hope you enjoy this one. I am on winter break, so will try to work more on this story over the next couple weeks.
> 
> This chapter title comes from a song by Amy Ray. The song Akito listens to is "I Am Not Afraid" by Owen Pallett.

**Akito**

I find Tohru at the table, a plate of stir-fried noodles in front of her. Daniel is nowhere to be seen. "Where did your friend go?" I say as I take a seat across from her.

"He's just in line. I managed to convince him I could survive a few minutes on my own – besides, you're here now, so I'm not alone anymore, am I?" She looks up and smiles. For a moment, all the white noise in the food court fades out.

"He seems really protective of you."

"He is. It's kind, but sometimes a bit overwhelming." She stirs her noodles with a pair of chopsticks. The void in my stomach sends a twinge up through my chest. "I don't think it's even because of the vision thing. Just that I'm the youngest, so he thinks he has to protect me."

The youngest? They don't seem like siblings – she's Japanese and he's Caucasian, though I suppose it's possible. And what is the vision thing? She wears glasses, but that doesn't seem like it would be a big deal. "What do you mean?" I say.

"In our friend group. Except for Kyo, all my friends have graduated." Her smile falters, but she brightens quickly. "Or did you mean what I meant by vision thing?"

"Both, kind of."

"I'm blind."

Even as she says this, she's obviously looking at me. Her eyes flick back and forth more than most peoples', but I can tell she's seeing me. Why would she wear glasses if they didn't do her any good?

She adds, "Legally. Not totally."

"Oh," I say, feeling stupid. That explains the hand-holding. And the dog in the restaurant.

"If you have any questions, I don't mind."

"It's okay. You probably get people asking really annoying things."

"Sometimes. But as long as it's not 'how many fingers am I holding up,' it's probably fine."

"Um, so am I sitting close enough, or would it be better if I was closer? So you could see me better." Quiet down, I tell my heartbeat.

"Hmm." She leans in. Shards of ocean sparkle in her mostly-brown eyes as they gaze into mine. She's so close I can feel her body heat – though that could be the warmth rising in my own face. If I bend slightly forward, I could kiss her.

"I can see you really well from here. Perfectly, I think, although I don't know what perfect seeing is. This is perfect for me." She leans back. "I can see your face, and that you're wearing black, and that your eyes are dark brown. They're really pretty."

I cough-laugh.

"No, really! They're nice!" Unless I'm projecting, her face seems to have gone a bit red too. "Sorry, was that rude of me to say?"

"No, of course not. Um, thank you."

"I didn't mean to say anything out of line."

"No, it was... nice. I'm just not used to people saying things like that to me."

Daniel rejoins us, setting down a tray of ginger beef and rice as he takes a seat. The smell of ginger, fried onions, and garlic sauce wafts across the table. My insides tighten. I clench my teeth. I'll microwave some spinach when I get home.

Daniel's mouth is moving and sounds are floating out. "...meet up with Ritsu?"

"Sounds wonderful!" says Tohru. "Akito, we're planning to meet up with a friend at The Music Box, would you like to come with?"

"Sure," I say.

I try not to stare as Daniel and Tohru finish their dinner. After, he takes Tohru's hand and the three of us walk towards the neon pink sign of The Music Box.

Inside, techno blasts from the speakers, dominating my senses. I flip through the CDs, but don't know where to start. I've had my obsessions in the past – Hatori and I would listen to modern classical in his car, letting cello tones and piano crescendos wash the air. Nikki and I blasted riot grrl and punk, sharing a pair of tinny earbuds as we sat on the hill at the edge of town, wearing hoodies in the late-autumn evening. I don't remember the words anymore, but I remember how they filled my veins with a soft buzzing, and how I felt small but invincible. Nikki and I leaned into one another in the dark, leaf-scented air as we watched the stars come out.

But I haven't listened to music properly in years. My headphones broke a few weeks after I moved in with my aunt and uncle. Besides, I haven't had the time with school. As we walk through the store, I stick close to Tohru and hope I don't seem like a creep.

Daniel waves to someone across the room, but the person doesn't see him. The tall, androgynous figure wears black clothes, and a curtain of red hair tumbles to their mid-back. A studded belt holds up their pants, which are so flowing they almost look like a skirt.

The person is deep in conversation with a Beatle-haired store employee carrying an armload of CD cases. At first the conversation is barely audible over the electronic pulsing, but seems to involve a lot of frantic gestures on the redhead's part. The dozens of multicolour bracelets covering their arms clatter like abacuses. As the customer's voice becomes frantic, louder and higher pitched, I begin to make out words.

"You really shouldn't have to do this, you have better things to do with your valuable time–"

"Oh, um, I don't mind. It's my job, after all."

"But I'm sure you have more important customers than me!"

The employee looks hard at the shelf for a moment, like he's forgotten how to read the letters on the labels. "It doesn't look like we have them here. I'm sorry, miss."

"Oh my heavens, I've wasted your time for nothing! I'm so sorry, I should have known better!"

Daniel walks over and puts a hand on the redhead's shoulder. He says softly, "Don't worry about it, Ritsu. We can go look for it over at Flamingo's."

"I'm sorry," says his friend, blinking back tears. "You shouldn't have to go to so much trouble for me." Daniel opens his arms and the two embrace. "Thank you. I'm sorry."

"I told you, don't worry so much," says Daniel. The store clerk slinks away into the background. As Ritsu looks up, their face breaks into a smile. "Tohru! You made it!"

"Of course!" says Tohru, grinning as she joins the hug. " It's great to see you again! How is fashion school?"

"I-it's good! I get to make a gown for my final project."

"That's great! I'm sure it will be beautiful. Ritsu, this my friend Akito. Akito, this is Ritsu. He used to go to our school."

He. Okay.

"H-hi," says Ritsu, with a small wave. "Um... sorry I got so emotional in front of you… It was probably uncomfortable."

"It's fine," I say. At least I'm no longer the most visibly ill-at-ease – his whole body seems to vibrate with nervous energy.

They talk for a while – Tohru, Daniel, Ritsu – about school and friends and winter break plans. It has a just-like-old-times feel to it – their old times, not mine. They try to include me in the conversation, but I have nothing to add.

Daniel ends up buying the loud techno CD, and Tohru gets something from the pop section by some woman I've never heard of. By the time we leave, shops have begun closing, storekeepers pulling down big metal grilles.

Daniel offers to walk Tohru home, and I mentally slap myself for not asking before him.

"It was great to see you again, Akito! Have a great night!" Tohru smiles and waves as we separate on the street.

"Thanks," I say. "You too."

I walk back on the nighttime streets alone, the sidewalk rusted with leaves. Apartments drip light through closed curtains. For the first time, I miss Coaldale. At least there, wandering the fields at night, there were stars. Instead, I watch the streetlights soak into clouds, blunting the whole sky to a strange shade of orange grey.

It wasn't a bad day. I saw Tohru. She included me. She likes me – as a friend, but still. I could use a friend.

_Don't ruin this._

When I get home, I look out my window over the city. The streets glow like fireflies or a lit-up computer chip. A cold fog settles over the streetlamps, hanging blunted halos on the air.

I close the curtains. I microwave a bowl of spinach and eat it with a fork. I chop an apple into tiny pieces, then eat them as slowly as I can. I take my vitamins. I drink a glass of water. I turn out the lights.

I lay down on my stomach to stop it from hurting. The movement of blood in my ears echoes back and fills my head with static. I won't fall asleep anytime soon.

Reaching across the bed, I flick on the radio for the first time since Hatori gave it to me. I slide through stations: ragged rock guitars, the dew-drop tumble of piano keys. Sound passes through me.

Gradually, sleep rises to cover my body; a soft purple thrum. Shapes play behind my eyes, beginning to stretch into dreams. The radio leaks violins. Or at least, violins fill my head. A strain of notes like water.

Slowly, a voice rises. Longing circles the room. In the mix of hope and hopelessness, my breath catches. The humming in my body stills. As I slip out, away from consciousness, whole minutes pass where I don't feel alone.

-/-/-

**Kyo**

I look over the edge and think about going through with it. I don't consider it – I think about it. There's a difference.

Something makes a sound; a tumble of static, repeating. I realize it's music. My earbuds are in. I remove them and check the screen of my mp3 player. Almost full blast, but I'd barely heard it. Everything sounds distant lately. I think this has only been happening lately, but looking back, I can't think of a specific starting point, so maybe not. Maybe it's been going on a long time.

I unplug. Listen to fast cars and cold wind. Headlights and traffic lights illuminate the pavement so far below me. Distant.

I could be so close to it all. I could be moving so fast, hit so hard. It could be the most fucking intense thing ever, just for one moment. But I won't do it.

I don't want to go the same way as her. I don't want to give anyone the satisfaction of feeling sorry for me, talking about me like they knew me.

And I don't want to hurt Tohru. I cringe as I imagine her face, how she'd react. I don't know what the hell she sees in me. But she does care.

Inside the apartment, something clicks. My body reacts with an instinctive jolt. My dad must be home. I go back inside to lock myself in my room.

Whenever I think about doing it, I feel calm for a moment. Like I have a way out. But I shake afterwards.

-/-/-

**Akito**

"So, um… are we going to talk about this?"

I tried not to see her reflection on the screen in front of me as I checked my inbox. Messages from school, which I had answered with That Woman's name. _Your daughter missed a day of school. Your daughter doesn't attend gym class. Your daughter is very quiet, seems nervous, seems unhappy. Is everything okay with your daughter? Nobody picked up the phone at your house._

_Yes,_ my replies read. _Everything is fine. Akito had a cold. Akito had an appointment. I was away at work. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Thank you for you concern. That is just Akito's personality. Thank you for your concern. Best wishes. Sincerely. Yours truly. Ren Sohma._

Nothing new. I clicked refresh.

"Fine, then," Nikki said. She threw up her arms in exaggerated exasperation. "Let's talk about something completely different. Let's talk about anything."

Still nothing. I hit refresh, again, watched the text vanish and refill the screen, listened to the monitor hum and click as it loaded.

"Did you see that movie, with the robots in it?"

Refresh. Re fresh. Reef resh.

"It's good. You should see it. We could go together, I wouldn't mind watching it again."

Refreshments. The refreshing taste of.

Black screen. Nikki yanked the back of my swivel chair – technically, her family's swivel chair – and turned me to face her. She held the plug to the computer in her hand.

"Just fucking talk to me!" She swallowed, tears standing out in her eyes. "Please," she added.

With her slept-in, cried-on makeup, she looked like an animal with spots around its eyes, or a shaky-handed but enthusiastic goth.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Just tell me what you want from me! I want you to be happy, but you won't tell me how! Just because of my parents doesn't mean we can't still be friends."

"That's just it. Being friends obviously doesn't mean the same thing to you as it does to me."

"I didn't ask for this to happen! In fact, I wish it hadn't, that we'd never had… those feelings. That would have been better for everyone."

"I would never have done to you what you did to me." I hated how the words came out. So self-righteous, and not even true. I'd said horrible things to her when she broke up with me. I had wanted to hurt her. And I had.

"I know," she said. A sob wracked through her and she sat down on her parents' bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She looked so small.

I didn't know how to apologize, so I sat down beside her and held her. I can't believe she let me.

-/-/-

Nikki made her parents out to be everything that was wrong with the old country. I'm not quite sure what old country this was, but they were something European and heavily accented. Her father worked for the city, which in his case meant doing some kind of difficult, dangerous manual labor (Nikki rolled her eyes as he showed me the scars on his hands from being injured by street-cleaning machinery) rather than filling out paperwork like it does for most people. From what I could tell, Nikki's mom ran errands, visited Nikki's many relatives, and did housework all day.

I didn't understand Nikki's fear that they would disown her. They loved her. Her mom made her soup, and asked her about school, and bought her some nail polish just because she had "seen it and thought of her." Even when she was angry because Nikki had to clean her room, she didn't yell. Nikki's dad watched soccer, and baked bread, and made bad puns ("Dad, there's a wrapper in the sink." "What's it singing?"). They were like a family from tv.

I kept waiting for something to go wrong, for one of her parents to explode and the illusion to shatter. But it never did. They genuinely seemed to like one another.

And even if Nikki was in the closet, she wasn't a quiet person. I get the feeling her mother overheard a lot of our conversations and knew more about her daughter than she let on.

No one asked me why I had been kicked out of my house. I got to borrow some of Nikki's clothes for the first day, which were too short on me, and then her father took me to the mall and insisted on buying me new ones, accepting without question that I couldn't go back home to get any. I picked out the cheapest ones I could find – unisex black jeans, dark blue t-shirts, a replacement hoodie that wasn't full of holes.

In the time I was at her house, Nikki began smiling and laughing around me again. I tried to be polite – I owed her that much. But it wasn't like it was when we were dating, or even when we were friends before that. Now it was like we were two chemical elements, a layer of oil between us that kept us from reacting.

Small talk was better than nothing, I guess.

Four days later, Hatori returned from his trip and came to get me.

"I'm not going back," I said, as I closed the car door behind me.

"I know," he replied.

The next few months, I was shuffled around between relatives. Nikki and I said hello in the hallways, but never much more.

-/-/-

My mother wasn't always like this.

When my father was alive, she seemed like a completely different person. Not that young children are the best judges of character, but she seemed… happy. She laughed and smiled and took me to the park, where I would roll down the hill and pick dandelions.

As my father's illness progressed, I began to see her as two separate entities. It was the only way I could understand: sometimes she was the woman who smiled and hugged me, who took me to the park and praised my clumsy crayon-sketches. Sometimes she cried, or didn't answer when I talked to her, but she was still my mother. When she was sad, I went up and put my arms around her, and she hugged me back.

But other times, she was a stranger. That Woman wore my mother's body, but she wasn't her. That Woman bumped into the furniture as she walked, smelled of unwashed sweat, called me a little shit, didn't feed either of us. Her voice cut like needles. Her nose was perpetually crinkled, as though she smelled something bad. Even when she smiled, there was something rotten behind it.

I stayed out of her way. I hid in the closet, the yard, under my bed. After class, I stayed late at school as often as possible, volunteering to clean the playground or put away the chairs. With my dad in the hospital and That Woman in the house, there was no reason to go home.

That's when Hatori started looking after me. He saw me at a family reunion, crumpled into a ball with my legs clutched to my chin as the other kids shouted and watched cartoons. He gently asked if I would like him to read me a book. I don't think I said anything the whole time – just took out a book from my backpack, one about the solar system my dad had given me. I was old enough to read on my own, but listening to Hatori's voice, the two of us away from the clamour of adults and small yowling cousins, helped me feel better.

He walked me to and from school after that, and let me come over to his house to do my homework. Sometimes his parents drove me to the hospital to see my dad – That Woman wouldn't let me see him, told me I had made this happen. I knew it didn't make sense, but it still made me sick with worry. I couldn't sleep, often cried at night and threw up in the morning.

But when I saw my father, he smiled, patted my hair and said he loved me. He joked about the terrible hospital jello and made me laugh, asked me how school was going, as though everything was the same as it had always been. He told me I was brave, even though he was the one with tubes attached to his arms and neck, hooked up to bags of fluid and strange beeping machines.

When he died, I lost my mother too. She disappeared completely, swallowed up inside That Woman.

-/-/-

**Yuki**

"Boo!"

I start at the sudden noise in my ear. Momiji laughs. "Yuki, you jumped!"

"Hi, Momiji," says Haru, as Momiji takes a seat between us and opens his lunch. As usual, the cartoon-rabbit box is filled with candy as bright as his clothing.

"Momiji, are the others almost done?" I say.

"Yup, they're all finished for today. But they walk slow so I got here first!"

Momiji still runs in the hall. Teachers don't tell him off, either because he might cry or because they like him too much to be angry with him.

A few minutes later, Kureno and Rin join us in the cafeteria, laughing. That catches my attention – it's rare to see either of them so animated.

"Kureno, Kureno! I scared Yuki!" says Momiji, running up to hug him. Kureno hugs him back, grinning. Even though there's only one year between them, when Kureno smiles like this he looks like an older version of Momiji. They share light, messy hair and fine features, especially when Kureno's face softens from his usual serious expression. Aside from height and personality, the main thing that sets them apart is how they dress – Kureno in his black cloak, striped tie, and ripped jeans; Momiji in neon, jewelry, and high boots. Despite the few inches they add to his height, he's still small for his age.

"I trust it went well?" I say.

Rin grins. "It went great. Since Britt's in yearbook design, we were able to get in through her account, then make a clone of it."

"I adjusted the settings to authorize it as an administrator," says Kureno.

"No one will see it?" says Haru.

"Not unless they check," says Rin. "Which they won't. By the time they realize what we've done, we'll be long gone."

"I don't know how you managed to figure all this stuff out," I say. "I'm impressed."

Kureno looks away, says, "It's really not that complicated, once you know how the system works. It's all codes, like the student ID numbers – Rin figured those out."

"I thought they were just random," says Haru.

"That's what it's supposed to look like," says Rin, "but each digit actually means something, and you can figure out someone's number based on that. The first one is for what school we go to, so ours all start with four."

"Mine starts with a two," says Momiji.

"That's because you transferred here," says Kureno.

Rin continues. "The next six are your birthday. Then it's the number for homeroom, then six digits that place you in a list of all the students who have gone to the school – like, five zeros and a one would be the first student who ever went here. That's your actual identification number.

"This is when it starts to get fucked up: the next few numbers mark how the school really sees you. There's a number for if you're on the honour role, if you're average, or if you're on academic probation. Then one for if you're in the gifted program, or the special needs class, etcetera. There's also a code for disabilities, and if a kid's ever been suspended. That's how they see us – you're either a perfect student, or you're a lot of extra work."

She keeps her voice controlled, but her dark eyes flash, and her hands tremble.

Haru touches her shoulder. "Any school would be lucky to have you."

She laughs bitterly, just the once. "I know. That doesn't mean they'll want me." She brushes her long hair out of her face, then says more lightly, "Anyway. The last number is gender – one for guys, zero for girls. I feel like I should be a bit offended by that."

"Why would they make those?" says Momiji.

"They probably use it to decide who goes in which class," I say.

"Yeah," says Rin. "Like, I wonder if they even check the kids' files, or just shove us wherever the number fits."

"It is creepy," I say. "But I'm sure at least some teachers are better than that."

"Maybe," says Rin. She doesn't sound convinced.

"Well, who gives a shit what they think." Haru's voice abrubtly hardens out of its usual distracted tone. Standing straight, he looks significantly taller. "It's their loss. We're smart, and we're talented, and we're good people – if they're gonna be assholes because we don't have perfect attendance, those aren't people we need to impress. Assholes are assholes."

"I see Haru's gone into dark mode." I turn to see Jazzy has arrived. He flops down on the bench with us and flips blond hair out of his mascara.

"Hey Jazz," says Rin. "And thanks, Haru." There's a slight sheen to her pale skin, but she smiles again.

-/-/-

**Akito**

It's been a few days, and I think Ms. Kuramae has almost given up trying to socialize me.

Almost.

"So Akito, how are you finding the school?" she says, inspecting my artwork – a lackluster pen and ink still life of a fake plant – and nodding appreciatively for no discernible reason.

"Good."

"I'm glad to hear that." She pulls up a chair next to me, sets her elbow on my desk, and leans against her hand. I slide my chair away from her, trying to be subtle about it. "Have you kept in touch with your friends from your old school?"

I shrug.

"Moving is hard," she continues. "Did you get along with Tohru and Kyo?"

"I was at the mall with Tohru a few days ago." I avoid any more detail. I'm not even sure of much more myself. I haven't talked to her since then. She's in none of my classes, and I have no idea how to approach her to start a conversation. What could we have to talk about?

She's not the type of person I usually fall for; I expect my feelings for her to evaporate soon. She's too nice – it will end up annoying me. She actually pays attention to me. She's… attainable.

Except not.

"That's great!" says Ms. Kuramae, smile widening. After a pause she adds, more seriously, "Give Kyo a chance, too. I think he'd appreciate it."

Shows how well she knows her students. Kyo would be thrilled if I fell down an uncovered manhole.

During lunch break, I decide to walk around the outside area rather than stop into the cafeteria. Clumps of students wait for DON'T WALK signs to change while cars speed past. Shallow puddles reflect traffic lights and the bright grey sky. The air smells of dead leaves.

I walk for maybe ten minutes, then turn back. As I'm standing under a traffic light, I hear a voice.

"Hi, Akito." I turn to see Yuki standing with some friends, a few of whom I recognize from the library. A girl with extremely long black hair, a tall blond boy, a white-haired guy with a lot of piercings, a red-haired girl with thick black-framed glasses, and a petit blond boy wearing a lot of eyeliner.

The black-haired girl steps forward and looks me over like she's appraising a piece of pottery. "So," she says, "you're the one Yuki's been telling us about."

"You talk about me?" I glower at Yuki.

"Only good things," says Yuki, seemingly oblivious.

"It's true, you know." She checks the black polish on her fingernails, then looks me directly in the eyes. "Yuki's ridiculously nice. He'd never say anything bad about anyone."

I'm not sure whether I've just been insulted, so I don't say anything. Yet. If she offends me again, she'll regret it.

Her mouth is a hard line, betraying no emotion – just like I've grown up learning to make mine.

She narrows her eyes. "Would you?"

It takes me a second to realize what she's talking about. Would I say anything bad about anyone. "Yes," I say, without hesitation. "If they deserved it."

"So would I," she says. The line curves into a smile. "I'm Rin. You've already met Yuki." She points to the white-haired boy. "That's Haru." The tall blond. "Kureno." The girl with the glasses. "Britt." Eyeliner boy. "Jazzy."

The cold air fills with 'hey's and 'nice to meet you's and I respond appropriately.

"It's piss cold out here," says Jazzy. His voice is surprisingly deep.

"Yeah, let's go in," says Yuki. The WALK sign pours white light. I wonder how long it's been on.

Without warning, Rin links her arm in mine. I walk with her, hoping she didn't notice I flinched when she touched me.

Inside, Haru, Rin, Kureno, Jazzy and I sit down while Yuki goes to buy food and Britt leaves to talk with a teacher about something.

"So, why did you transfer here, Akito?" says Haru. Despite the multitude of piercings and his leather jacket, his voice is gentle.

I think for a moment, realize I'm taking too long to answer. "I moved."

"Where from?" says… what's his name, Kureno. It's the first thing he's said since I've met him. Despite his height, he's not very noticeable.

"Up north."

"Family reasons?"

"If that included getting away from them, then yes." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret saying them. Way to make everyone uncomfortable. Although Yuki irritates me, I don't mind his friends so far.

Instead of the expected awkward silence, I get nods. "So you live on your own?" says Haru.

"Yes."

"I wish I could do that." Rin sighs and examines a rip in one of her black-and-white-striped knee socks. "I'm with grandparents until I have a decent income. Or until they throw me out too."

"That happened to me," says Jazzy. "The parentals kicked me out and the grandparentals wouldn't take me, so I'm living with my sister and her boyfriend." He laughs, although I can't see anything funny about the situation. "They're pretty damn cool, so it all worked out."

"Hey, Kureno," says Rin. "You, Haru, and Yuki are the only ones here who actually live with their parents."

"I'll probably move out after high school." Kureno seems far away – well, farther away than he's been this whole conversation. "For school."

Rin rolls her eyes. "You and your aspirations. What will it be, lawyer or accountant?"

"I don't know yet. Probably neither, but it's possible."

"Where are you going to university?" I say.

"I don't know yet."

Rin glares at him. "If you're going to join the world of the highly educated, you'd better learn to be more decisive."

"Ooh, now she's pissed," says Jazzy.

"I'm just saying, he's the only one of us that actually has a future, but it's going to pass him by at this rate."

"Hey, I have a future," objects Jazzy. "I'm going to be a fashion designer. Or a painter."

"And don't forget Yuki," says Haru.

"Where is he, anyway?" asks Jazzy.

"Getting pizza," says Kureno.

Haru nods. "The sacred duty. And Akito probably has a future."

"Okay then." Rin smiles again, but there's no happiness in her dark eyes. "Akito, got any dreams?"

"There's a recurring one. I'm in a basement full of antique bathtubs. Then the floor turns into grains of rice and I sink into it like quicksand."

Silence. Then laughter.

Jazzy says, "That's fucking awesome." He grins, exposing very white, very pointed teeth.

"I like you," decides Rin. "You're interesting."

"I can't believe it's almost over," says Haru. He pauses. "High school, I mean."

"Yeah," says Rin. We're quiet again.

Yuki comes back at this point, bearing pizza. Kureno and Haru take slices. Jazzy, Rin and I decline. "What were you guys talking about? You all seem depressed." Yuki eyes us with concern.

"The future," says Haru.

"Like science-fiction?"

"Sort of. Us."

"Speaking of, does anyone have any thoughts regarding the major event of the immediate future?" says Kureno.

"Darren's party," says Rin.

Jazzy flashes a bright vampiric smile "It's gonna be a fuckin' parade of my exes."

Rin turns to me. "I'll get you an invite."

"I don't do parties."

"It will be fun. Just try it."

"I'll think about it."

"Who else is going?" says Haru.

"Hm," says Rin. "Well, there's us. And that girl Yuki likes." She lists off a few more names, none of which I recognize. "Oh, and Tohru and Kyo."

My breath catches. "When is the party again?"

"Next week on Saturday," says Yuki. "About six o'clock."

"I think I have that day off work."

"Awesome!" says Jazzy. "Rin and I will help you get ready."

The two of them exchange evil grins. "What's your address?" says Rin.

Against my better judgement, I give it to her.


	5. V: Small Figures in a Vast Expanse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akito learns more about the students at their new school. A new friend hatches a plan to try to bring Tohru and Akito closer together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a song by Rilo Kiley.

**Akito**

Sometimes (it's usually in the morning, on rare days where I wake up slowly; just as I begin to realize my eyelids are up, and my vision adjusts to the soft sting of sunlight in the off-white curtains) I wonder how I got this way. What factors made my life this, and not something completely different.

I know others must wonder too, but it’s been a long time since anyone outright asked. In junior high I got questions, but they weren’t looking for an answer; hallway sneers of “What are you wearing?” and “You know you’re a girl, right?” But when I was younger, still in elementary school, I was just… accepted. Akito the boy-girl. Just me. 

When my dad was alive, my parents never complained that I preferred to catch insects or watch birds than play with dolls. My mother frowned when I directed our shopping towards the boy section, but she never stopped me. And after my dad passed away, I did my own shopping anyway.

Still, it wasn't really about clothes. Scraps of fabric don't have any inherent gender. I wasn’t trying to "be a boy," I just... wanted to be comfortable. 

My father showed me how to kick a soccer ball, but I never played with the other students. During recess, I sat by myself on the root of an oak tree and read. I don't remember being unhappy. Maybe lonely. But I knew I was smart, and I knew who I was.

Now I'm not sure. 

Would things be different if I'd been born a boy? Or if, somewhere along the line, I'd just decided to be a proper girl? It doesn't feel like something that can be chosen, and yet of course I choose what I wear, how I behave. My choices are who I am. So why can't I choose to be someone else? Someone others would like better? Someone I would like better?

I've tried telling myself I don't know, but I have to. This is the closest thing to me – this is me. How can I not know what 'me' is?

I hold my hand up to the light, watch sun stream in the space between my fingers. This is what I am, what I have always been: a consciousness and a body.

Why do the two seem incompatible?

-/-/-

When I was young I could fly. At least, that's what we called it. My father picked me up, lifted me over his head, and I spread my arms. My crayon-smudged fingers reached across the sky, and he held me in the air and ran. In retrospect, I know he was walking, but as the wind passed under my wings, lifting my hair like a cape, it felt like we were moving so fast that the air supported me as much as his steady arms. He held me and we laughed. I imagined myself a part of the endless sky. 

My father set me on his shoulders. He answered my questions about birds and airplanes and butterflies and I held onto his head like a child-shaped crown. I felt so close to everything. To him.

As he walked us home in the summer evening, I kept asking him questions and he kept answering. Sometimes I asked questions that I already knew the answers to – "Why is the sky blue?" – just so I could hear his voice.

I don't think he was sick yet. Or at least, not sick like he was a few years later, when he slept all day and always smelled of hospitals. When I see pictures of him, I'm always shaken; they show a tall, underweight man, his skin sallow and his posture poor. His eyes are tired. He's rarely shown smiling; when he does, it looks sad. 

That's not how I knew him. He was strong to me – gentle, but strong. We'd walk for hours together, and he'd tell me the names of all the trees and insects we saw. He was usually quiet, reading or working on lesson plans for the university where he taught. But quiet doesn't mean weak. He loved the world. He didn't want to die.

After flying, as I sat on his shoulders, my arms around his forehead for balance, the whole town felt new. Bronze spokes of light caught in the branches. The dusk dripped slowly down, lengthening our shadows over the grass, and the air tasted cool and smoky. Grass moths stirred up around his feet with each step. He trod carefully so as not to crush them. 

My father set me down on the path beside him, and I took his hand.

I don't know what reminded me of that.

-/-/-

The next few days, Yuki, Rin, and their friends continue to wave me over to their table. It happens so often I now habitually walk towards their corner when I hear the lunch bell, catch myself, then realize I can't think of anywhere else to go.

They talk about parties, classes, art projects. Apparently Kureno writes poems, though I've never seen him display any semblance of emotion. Britt likes to paint, and Momiji scribbles cartoons in a notebook, which he excitedly shows Haru. Jazzy also mentions being interested in art, though his imagination mostly shows itself in makeup and profanity. Rin and Yuki don't reveal much about themselves, but the others seem to look to them for approval. 

I don't know what they want from me, but for now, I go along with it. I don't want to be alone. 

As Jazzy waves me over today, Rin and Yuki are already deep in conversation, Haru listening. 

"I'm not sure about the layout," Yuki says. "We want the cover to be interesting, but if it's too different, they'll catch us right away."

"So let them," says Rin. "What are they going to do, cancel printing all of them?"

"That’s exactly what they’ll do. If they see right away that it isn’t the design they ordered, all they have to do is look at the file they sent – oh. Hi, Akito." 

Yuki smiles guiltily; it's an odd look on someone who, despite his purple hair and red eyes, seems so straight-laced. I'd be stunned to see him jaywalk. 

"What are you guys talking about?" I say. 

Rin grins at Yuki. "Should we tell him?"

"It's nothing," says Yuki. 

Jazzy cocks an eyebrow at him, then looks at me. "Stuff for the yearbook," he says, too smoothly. "We're helping Britt with the design." 

"And it's a secret," I say tonelessly.

"Nah. Just a long story." 

"Hey," says Rin, "I wanted to send you an invite to the party but couldn't find you on facebook." 

"Oh." I shrug. "I don't have one." 

"Seriously?"

"I tried it a few years ago but I didn't like it. And I don't have a computer right now."

"Okay, I'll text you the address then. What's your number?"

"I don't own a cell phone."

They're all looking at me now.

"Dude, how do you _live?_ " says Jazzy. 

"I manage," I say. Irritation seeps into my voice. "I don't really care about things like that."

They're not the only ones who can lie. When I tried social networking websites, I couldn't get away – I jumped from page to page, scrolling through acquaintances, wondering what they'd said about me. I dug for hours through backlogs of statuses, ready to feel insulted, righteously angry. 

Instead, I found nothing. No one even mentioned me. It was as though I'd never existed.

I deleted my account immediately. Besides, sitting behind a screen made me feel even less human – like I was controlling my body from a distance, or watching a movie of my life with a predetermined ending. 

"It's probably convenient," says Yuki. "More time."

"It's fine. I do my homework in the library."

“So,” says Jazzy, "Are you, like, one of those anti-tech, live-in-the-present people?"

"He has a point," says Rin. "We really don't know your story."

"I don't have one," I say.

Rin says, "Okay."

That's it? 'Okay'?

She must see my expression because she shrugs. “Past is past.”

"You don't have to talk about anything you don’t want to," Haru joins in. “Like the time Yuki's pants exploded glitter in math class. No one brings that up."

"Hey!" says Yuki. "You just did!"

“I mean…” says Haru, “it wasn’t really his fault."

"It wasn't my fault at all!"

"How does happen even?" I say.

Yuki sighs. "My brother's misguided attempt at a birthday present. Why on earth he thought someone would want surprise glitterbomb trousers..."

Everyone takes a moment to contemplate this.

"See?" Jazzy's silver-lipsticked mouth widens into a grin. "No one gets judged, 'cause we're all pretty fuckin' weird."

"If you don't like your history, just do something you prefer in the present," says Rin. "Now hold out your arm."

I do it before I have time to think why she’d ask this. She takes out a pen, holds the cap in her teeth as she writes. The ballpoint trails cool blue ink on my skin.  
"There," she says, releasing me. I examine my arm to see wild but striking writing, like calligraphy, from my elbow to palm. "That's the time and address. And that" – she points to an intricately shaded sphere – "is what I'm thinking of getting for a tattoo. I wanted to see how it looked on someone else first."

"It's nice," says Haru. Jazzy thumbs-ups his agreement. 

I look closer at the sphere. The shading shapes a landscape of shadows and craters. Around the circle, long thin curves reach outward like anemones. A lacework of Japanese letters encircles the design. “So it’s the moon inside a flower?”

"Yeah," says Rin. "I couldn’t decide between two poems – ‘The autumn full moon / all night long / I paced round the lake” and “Chrysanthemum flowers / blooming / in the stones.” So I kinda put them together.”

“I didn’t know you were into poetry.” 

She shrugs. “I was sick for a while and couldn’t do much besides read. A friend got me a book of Basho poems, and it was a good memory even in a shitty time.” She takes a bite of her apple, chews, swallows. “Anyway, I thought it would be a good reminder. Though now I don't know – might be too Japanese."

"Aren't you Japanese?" I say. 

"I'm nothing," she says, suddenly forceful. Her dark eyes lock into mine. "I adopted myself. No history."

"Oh," I say. "Like what you said about making your own story."

"Yeah." She nods, breaks off the glare. "You get it." 

-/-/-

I watched from the bottom as my uncle carried my suitcase up the stairway. Although the case Hatori had given me was mostly empty, it was also far too big, and my uncle hunched as he ascended, suitcase banging. “I can take it,” I said, for the tenth time, but he either pretended not to hear or really didn’t. I’d been trying to make my voice deeper, more from my chest, So far, the main effect was to make me even quieter.

He reached the top and the suitcase wheels grumbled along the floor. “Come up,” he said, and I followed. 

They’d cleared away most of my cousin’s things after she went away to college, but the room still had her posters: _LOST_ and _A Walk To Remember_ , a painting of an angel in a gold frame. The pink and purple bedsheets shone in the spring light, filtering through curtains the colour of sunflowers. Origami stars dangled from a ceiling fan. 

My uncle stood there in his work clothes and tired eyes, and I slouched into my spine, wishing I could disappear. With my hands shoved in the pockets of too-big jeans, the frayed sleeves of my hoodie and a haircut I did in my bathroom, I felt like I was dirtying his daughter’s room just by being there.

“Your aunt and I will show you around,” said my uncle. Vocal coaching had left him with barely an accent. Each syllable a single, clear bullet. “Would you like to see now or after dinner.” His careful articulation left the sentence a flat plane, no rise to indicate a question. 

“Maybe after.” 

“Do you need help to unpack.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“Dinner will be in a half-hour.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” 

The air in the room was neutral, an absence – none of the sour smells I associated with home. My uncle looked at me, nodded, then headed back down the stairs. The pine branches past the window swayed, making no sound at all. 

Life at my aunt and uncle’s house was uneventful. My aunt invited friends over, other nurses or families from the church. In evenings, laughter bubbled up the stairs as I hunched over my science textbook, forcing chemical bonds into my head. 

Each night, I studied late because I didn’t know what else to do. I still couldn’t sleep, but I was exhausted. By five o’clock my eyes ached like I’d been punched. 

My aunt let me be, except for sometimes knocking on the door to offers deserts her friends had brought over. I invariably thanked her but said I already ate. 

Hatori visited, took me to restaurants on weekends. Bought me food. I poked at my fries, or fish, or pasta. Felt angry without knowing why.

I thought things would be better once I was away from That Woman. But I was still stuck with myself. 

 

-/-/-

My heart thunders as I run, frosted grass crunching under my sneakers. The morning air scrapes at my throat, but the clamour of movement brings heat to my skin. “Very good, Akito!” Miss Kurame calls, as I pass the goalposts and begin the third lap.

I don’t hate athletic advancement. At least, not as much as I expected to. My lungs pound and my calves ache, but it's a connection to this body that usually feels like a detached entity. Besides, there's something oddly rewarding about feeling like I'm about to die and then… not.

I'm always hungry afterwards, whether that's for better or for worse. I eat cereal for breakfast, and a piece of fruit for lunch. Sometimes I binge on vegetables when I get home, when my willpower drops. But food costs money, and I still feel sick after eating it. But I feel sick when I don't eat it, as well. 

I wear my gym shorts under my jeans. I change my shirt in a stall in the guy's washroom, making sure to go in a few minutes after the late bell has gone so that no one else is in there. Since everyone assumes I'm male, it seems safest to just go with it.

Besides, it doesn’t feel like a lie, exactly. At least, no more a lie than if I forced myself to be a girl. 

-/-/-

As I walk towards the gym, I hear the sound. A kind of whimpering – my first thought is a kitten has somehow gotten into the school. As I continue walking, the sound grows louder.

I do a double take as I pass the vending machine. Slumped against the side of the humming, blue-glowing unit is a girl, black clothes camouflaged against the black metal. Red hair and glasses. 

"Britt, right?"

She nods, looks up at me and then away.

"Are you all right?"

She stands up, takes off her glasses and wipes them on her shirt. "I'm just angry." She isn't crying. At least, not anymore, and she's trying to look like she hadn't been.

"What happened?"

She exhales. "My yearbook class is full of bastards."

"Oh."

"And the school won't let me drop it." She looks directly into my eyes for a few seconds. "There's nothing you could do about it, don't worry."

"I…"

"Sorry, you just look really nervous. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

"I'm just…" I say the first thing that comes into my mind, "hungry."

"Do you wanna go get something to eat? What class do you have now?"

"Athletic advancement."

She makes a face. "Eww. Sorry, I'm not a gym person."

"Me either."

"Do you want to skip?"

"Sure."

"Okay, let's get out of here. Just being in this hallway is creeping me out."

"Gym memories?"

"My teacher was a woman with a moustache. That thing traumatized me.” I laugh, though I can’t help wondering if I fall into the same category. Traumatic.

“Who do you have?" she asks.

"Ms. Shiraki."

"What's she like? I hear she has fangirls."

"She's okay."

Britt and I walk outside. As we trod through slush, cars honk and screech and rumble and splash. I try not to listen, blend it into white noise. But occasionally the chaos blares through and I flinch.

What am I doing? I hardly know this girl, and it's not like I care what she thinks of me. What’s the point? Yet… it seemed wrong to leave her there, alone, crying. And she seems to know where she’s going. So I follow.

As we pass the intersection, we approach Kyo on the other side. He must be skipping class, too. 

"Hey," says Britt.

He smiles. Sort of. The movement is small, but definitely friendly. “Hey,” he says.

"You know him?" I say once we’re out of earshot. Britt leads us into a Vietnamese restaurant, orders spring rolls and an avocado milkshake. I order the same. If she’s having it, it’s safe – it’s what normal people eat.

I force myself to control my breathing, try not to break into a panic-sweat about the amount of calories. I just won't eat tonight. I won't eat tomorrow night.

"Yeah, he's in my homeroom," she says. It takes me a moment to remember what we're talking about. Kyo.

"I don't think he likes me," I say.

"He can be… abrasive. But he’s nicer than he seems. He just doesn’t like to get close to people.”

“He seems close to Tohru.”

“Yeah, they’ve been friends since grade 10. At first they were both kind of loners, but they look out for each other. I talk to them in homeroom sometimes.”

"You're friends with Tohru?"

"Yeah, she's really nice. You know her, too?"

"Kind of."

"Sounds like you want to know her better."

"He got pissed off at me for being around her."

“Yeah, but… it’s not his business. And he knows that. Tohru’s able to stand up for herself.”

Our food arrives. I cut my spring roll into pieces, the golden batter crunching. I pick up a section with chopsticks and put it in my mouth. The warmth of spring beans and fish sauce spreads over my tongue.

"You seem hungry," she says. 

_Control yourself. You're being gross._

I swallow, study the remaining pieces of spring roll. The gold pastry leaves oil stains, diffusing over the doily on my plate. Yeah, I guess" I say.

"So,” she leans in closer, smiles, “you like Tohru, huh?"

"I hardly know her."

"But you like her."

"In the way one can like an almost stranger, I suppose."

"Which could be quite a lot."

I look into her brown eyes, so dark they’re almost black. "Why do you care?"

"You're fun to annoy." She takes a sip of her drink through the straw, the corner of her mouth quirked up. "Do you want me to talk to her?”

"About… what?"

"You know. How she feels about you.”

"I doubt I'm her type."

Britt looks at me over the rim of her half-empty glass. "I think you are."

My face warm again, I take a long sip of my avocado shake.

-/-/-

**Tohru**

The teacher's voice falls over the room like snow as she talks about cell membranes. I imagine her as a singer, humming along to the first strums of a guitar. Around her, I imagine the sound of a café. She works there in daytime and sings there during evenings, using the tips to buy treats for her best friend – her cat, Gertrude.

I write that down, just in case. My movies already have too many characters, but I don’t want to miss anything – any piece of the city, of peoples’ lives. I scrawl down notes beside the diagram of a plant cell. The enlarged paper covers most of my desk, curls up at the edges like wings.

“Cells,” the teacher is saying. I make myself focus. Cells. My pen clicks over the paper, soundtracks the curves of letters. A word made of semi-circles and pillars to define the things that make up all living beings. The definition of life, too small to be seen by people, even though they are people. Or, I mean, people are them. It's so hard to comprehend, past the scientific jargon, to actually think of myself like that, all these tiny pieces that are constantly growing and changing and duplicating. Dying and being born.

Unfortunately, this sense of awe doesn’t help me pass my bio tests. Focus.

My pocket vibrates. Speaking of cells. 

It must be a text from Kyo. Or Ritsu could be panicking and need someone to talk to–

Could it be my cousins? We're not on very good terms, but if something family-related were going on, they'd let me know, wouldn't they?

The next twenty minutes until the bell sounds, my mind plays through all the possible scenarios of who could have sent the message and why.

When class ends, I almost run out of the room and down the hall. I would run, if I could do it without bumping into people and probably falling, making the trip take even longer. When I'm safely out of view behind the washroom door, I open my phone and hold it to my face.

It’s from a girl in my class. Britt – we’ve talked a few times, I gave her my number a few years ago when we had a group project for English class. I’m surprised she’s held on to it. “Hey how are you doing?" she writes. "Want to meet outside by the doors after class?”

I text back my agreement and a smiley face, say that I’ll be right there.

Nothing to worry about. Slowly, my heart returns to normal.

I take the elevator down, the floor vibrating through the soles of my shoes. As I step outside, wind rattles the brittle-leaved branches. The grind of tires mingles with birds chirping, the pounding of shoes over concrete and gravel. The air is sweet and cool and fresh, and will be so until the wind changes direction, carrying exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke across the street.

"Tohru! Yo, over here!" I turn towards his voice. His flash of orange hair stands out against the grey of sky and cement. The early winter dark dulls every colour except red and orange. Kyo's hair competes for visibility with the smeared lights of passing cars, like red oil pastel marks.

I pick out another orange blur beside him. There she is. "Hi Kyo! Hi Britt!"

Kyo and Britt's "hey"s echo back at me. Kyo's voice is rough but cool, natural as the wind. Britt's voice is like that too, usually, but this time it's like the high-pitched tones of a finger moving around the rim of a glass. I wonder what she's excited about.

I walk towards them. “Hi! What did you want to talk about?”

"I'll tell you later," says Britt. "By the way, you're going to the party, right?"

"I'm not sure–"

"Please? It's the only way Kyo will agree to show up, and he needs to start getting out."

"I'm still here, you know," says Kyo.

"Well, if you two are going, I would love to. It’s always fun to see friends.” 

I nearly fall over from the force of Britt's unexpected hug. "Awesome. Kyo, you have to go too.”

"Fine, I'll be there," says Kyo. Britt releases me and forcibly hugs him too. “Ugh, okay, calm down. I’m going across the street to buy chips, do you guys want anything?”  
Britt gives him money to buy an energy drink. As he crosses the street, she and I take a seat on a bench.

"Did you still want to talk to me about… whatever it was?" I ask.

"Right, that. I was going to ask if you knew Akito.”

I smile. "Yes, I do. We ran into each other at the mall a while back, and we talked. She's very nice!"

"Oh," says Britt, too quickly, voice high again. Maybe she doesn't think Akito is nice, or is surprised that she would go to the mall? Or that I would go there? After a moment of quiet, Britt says, "Do you still see each other around?"

"Not that much, unfortunately. Actually, I don't think I've seen her since then."

"You guys should hang out more."

"You think so?"

"Yes. You make each other happy."

"Akito said that?"

"I could tell."

"Well, um, that's good, then. Thank you for letting me know." I feel my face start to redden. 

"No problem.” Britt smiles. “You know, if you ever want to hang out with her, I’m sure she’d like to get to know you better.”

“That would be… nice.” 

“It seems like she makes you happy too.” 

“Yes – well, I mean, we’ve only talked a bit, but –“

"What are you guys talking about?" Kyo sits down beside me and offers Britt and I chips from a crackling bag in his hands. I take one. Salt and vinegar.

– Suddenly I’m back, my mom and I, sailing in British Columbia, the bright sunlight and the smell of sea, the salt in my hair, slipping into my mouth as we swim, bitter, climbing on deck, eating chips to wash the taste out, laughing, salt and vinegar and fresh water, trying to get the taste out –

The memory rushes back and I swallow it down. 

Britt says, "Just stuff."

To me, Kyo says, "You're walking home now, right?” 

“Yup. Want to walk together?” 

“Of course.” 

“I have to head the other way,” says Britt. “Oh, and Tohru – remember that thing, right?”

“I’ll definitely think about it,” I say, waving goodbye. 

As Kyo and I walk, he says, “What was that about?” 

I think for a moment. “I’m not quite sure yet. But I’ll tell you when I figure it out.” 

_You make each other happy._

I smile. It would be nice to see her again.


	6. VI: A Better Son/Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Kyo's backstory is revealed. Rin and Kagura spend time together, but things don't go as smoothly as planned. Meanwhile, Tohru and Akito become closer.
> 
> Chapter title is a song by Rilo Kiley

**Tohru**

Kyo is quiet as we walk home. The frosted leaves crunch under our shoes. "So how are you doing?" I say, once we're a few blocks from school. "Really."

"Fine," he says. His footfalls slow. The surrounding houses echo them back to us. "Well, okay, not fine. But I will be." 

I nod. In the three years I've known him, November has always been hard for Kyo. His voice is distant, like it has to pass through a wall on its way through his throat. "I know,” I say. “But if there's anything I can do, please let me know."

"Thanks," he says. "I don't think there's really anything anyone can do, but just… knowing you're here, that helps. Thanks for not, like, ditching me when I get like this."

"Of course not. You're human, it's natural to hurt sometimes."

"Yeah, I guess. Thanks." He kicks a stone and it rattles over the asphalt. "You know, the same goes for you. You're always helping everyone out, but if you ever need anything... I'm here for you, too." 

I hug him, and he startles, then hugs me back. "I know," I say. "You're my best friend."

He smiles. "You too."

Kyo’s mom passed away when he was ten. It was in November. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but last year he said he still has nightmares. The sound of sirens, police cars flashing outside his apartment when he got home from school. His father sobbing as an officer took notes. 

Every year when we go back to school, I hear his voice fade week by week, conversation fraying into fewer and fewer strands. The charge of energy that usually flows through him, sometimes loud but also gentle, seems to dampen with the autumn rain and snow. 

He’s reborn, eventually. Rain hardens into snow; the grey light turns to shards of sun. His laugh ornaments the air, and I feel his movement standing next to him. I know it will come, like it comes every year. I know he’ll get better. But until then, I worry. 

I know what it’s like to lose someone. I talk to my mom in my mind, late at night or when life is overwhelming. Sometimes just because I thought of something she may find funny, or to tell her how my life is going. I miss her every day. Of course I miss her. 

She made peace with the fact that she was going to die, but she loved life. We loved each other. We still do. 

Kyo’s mom chose to die. As much of a choice as that can be; she must have done her best to live, and her death doesn’t negate those efforts. But Kyo carries the weight of losing her this way, and it’s different than the weight I carry. Not necessarily lighter or heavier — I don’t think grief can be quantified — but it’s different for him. It’s different for everyone. 

He doesn’t like to talk about it, and I’d never force him to. 

Sometimes his thoughts are a locked room that I can’t enter. There are things he’s experienced that I’ll never understand. 

But I keep trying. That’s what friends do. 

-/-/-

**Kyo**

Even as Tohru says there's nothing weighing on her mind, I don't believe her. Not that she's dishonest – but she doesn’t like to complain, even when she has the right to. I first met Tohru two years ago in grade 10, a couple months after her mom died. I didn’t even know she was gone until I’d known Tohru for almost a month. The way she talked about her – things her mom had said, movies they’d watched together — it seemed like she was still around.

She never complained about losing her, never got angry about it being unfair. She just said, over and over, how lucky she was. What a good life they’d had together.

I know she means it, but… no one can be that well-adjusted, can they? Not all the time. It’s like she said — sometimes humans have to hurt. At the end of grade 10, when Tohru broke up with her awful ex, she'd tell me she was fine even with tears shining in her eyes. 

Maybe I'm being paranoid about Akito. But when I think someone could hurt Tohru — again — my blood burns. My nails bite into my palms. 

We say goodbye on the doorstep to her grandpa's house, and then I head home to drop off my backpack. Along the way, I try to keep in mind something Shishou said, about keeping my senses open so I don't get lost in myself. I focus on the blue light in the snow, the drip of icicles in the eaves. It almost sounds like spring. But it isn't. 

The edges of night creep against the treeline. In the pale sky, the moon shines like wet glass, larger than usual, yet somehow appearing even more far away. Like it’s in another world.

I dump my backpack at the apartment and detach the heavy chains from my pants, tossing them into the abyss of my room. I try to do an English assignment, but the water heater hums through the walls, stealing my thoughts away. The small space overcrowds with too-white fluorescents, but if I turn them off _he'll_ give me shit for sitting in the dark like some kind of freak. _Why can't I have a normal child?_

My dad won't be done work for a few hours, but still. I don’t like sitting in a space imprinted with shitty memories. My arms and legs cramp as I try to fold them into stillness.

The apartment vibrates; the hum of the sleeping computer, the neighbour’s dishwasher leaking sound through the walls. Someone taking a shower in another room. The fake quiet congests my thoughts, white noise on the edge of tipping into clamour. I try to fish through the buzzing, to separate my heart and my thoughtbeats from the room. To separate the noise inside me from the noise outside. But I can’t cut it cleanly. 

This time of year, I feel on the verge of losing my mind. But as I think those words, and they sound scary and dramatic, they don’t capture how boring it is. I’m a radio wave, passing through the physical world without leaving a trace. Nothing is real, or I’m not real. Nothing is satisfying. Nothing is enough.

I switch my boots for a pair of running shoes, grab an apple from the fridge, and leave. I'll do the homework at school. Or I won't.

Just breathe — I think of what the therapist told me, though it sounds stupid. How could I forget to breathe? I anchor myself to the rhythm of my footsteps as I jolt down the stairs. The apple's not ripe yet, but I like it, my teeth piercing the cold skin and sour juice spilling into my mouth. It doesn’t taste good, but that seems fitting. I toss the core over my shoulder into the trash as I leave the building, a tinny clang confirming I hit my mark.

I cross the street then walk for about ten minutes, getting clear of the crowds and the traffic. I wave as I pass a few people I sort of know — the Punjabi lady from across the street, and a little girl with braids, waving around a cardboard helicopter. But there's not many people out today. There usually isn't, in the fall. 

In the summer, the streets fill up with kids, throwing footballs or skateboarding or riding half-broken bicycles, mixing up languages as they shout to each other. We're mostly first or second generation immigrants in my neighbourhood, usually from Russia, Jordan, India, Nigeria. Being Japanese made me unique growing up, to the few people who cared. When I was a kid, my teachers had trouble understanding me because I'd acquired a complicated mixed accent and would scatter words from half a dozen other languages into my English sentences, not aware they weren't understandable to everyone.

I cross the intersection, approach the row of frozen trees surrounding the reservoir. My feet hit the path and I take off running. 

-/-/-

After she died, I was angry. Really angry. I wanted to scream, and throw things, and smash all our dishes on the floor. We still used the dishes she'd bought, porcelain flowers hovering in a blue abyss. I couldn't tell whether her having bought them made me want to break them more or less. But I didn't break the dishes. 

Instead, I got into fights. Anything could set me off — a jab about my hair, a teacher telling me I wasn't working up to my potential, a classmate asking why I'd worn the same t-shirt three days in a row. The anger forced itself up from my stomach. I exploded, shouting until my outsides matched my insides and everyone could see how poisonous I was. I spewed out every swear I knew, feverish and acidic. 

Once a kid tossed a ball of paper off the back of my head, and I turned and threw my textbook at him. That's how I ended up getting sent to the guidance counselor. 

Looking back, he wasn't a bad guy. The counselor, I mean. He was had thin, wispy hair that clumped like feathers, colourless eyes that shone in skin like wax. His office was filled with bland landscapes printed with words like "perseverance" and "positivity," his desk a cluttered rainbow of stress balls. He was probably nice enough, in a useless way. 

I hated him. I wanted to rip down his posters and shove them down his inane throat — persevere through that. 

"Do you like yourself, Kyo?"

"I have to live with myself."

"Living with yourself isn't the same as liking yourself."

I dug my nails into the stress ball. My thumb pierced a hole and rice spilled out, clattering onto the linoleum. I looked up, hoping he'd be mad, but his face didn't change. 

“Do you ever use art to communicate your feelings? Your teachers say you like to draw.”

I didn't respond.

“Kyo,” he said with weird, synthetic yet sincere gravity. “You need some kind of outlet. If you don’t want to talk to me, I understand. I’d like to get to know you better, but if you aren’t comfortable opening up to me, I do understand. But the important thing is your wellbeing. And your wellbeing isn’t so good right now, is it?” 

I ground my sneaker against the rice. 

“It’s healthy to express yourself, but anger isn’t a good way to do so. You’ve got a lot of energy, and that’s a positive trait, even if it doesn’t always feel like it. There are good things you could channel that energy into. Do you do any after school activities?”

“No.”

“Would you be interested in some?”

I shrugged. 

“There’s a pottery class at the community centre–“

I exhaled a laugh so sharp it sounded like something cracking.

“Okay, maybe something else. There are swimming classes, or martial arts.“

“That sounds… okay.” I forced my voice to sound unenthused. 

“Which one?”

“The martial arts. It sounds… less boring than the other stuff.” In truth, I’d always wanted to do martial arts. I grew up on Spiderman, and Jackie Chan movies. Martial arts were badass. 

But I wasn’t going to let this asshat know he’d caught my interest. 

He smiled. “Excellent. We’ll find you an instructor, then.”

A few days later, I met Shishou.

-/-/-

There were so many people at the funeral. People from the oil company my mom had worked for. I could barely see the coffin over all their heads. The textureless polished wood, closed. No one let me see her face.

The sea of strangers bent their shoulders under waves of olive-black clothes, shaking hands with my dad. Said how much they loved her. Would miss her. Wish they had known what a hard time she was having. 

I tore at my fingernails, leaving bits of blood where I pulled too hard. Bullshit. They hadn't wanted to know. When she missed work for weeks, when she wouldn't leave her bed or stop crying, none of them had done a thing. I was the only one who stayed with her. 

And I wasn't enough.

-/-/-

A local politician came to the funeral. She brought her son, a kid from my class — Yuki Aizawa. He stared at his shoes while his mom talked to my dad about what a great person his wife was, how much she'd given to the community. Even at ten years old, I knew this woman was talking about money. 

My mom was good at her work, even if I didn’t exactly get what her work entailed. She earned enough for three people to live on, even if our lives were far from glamorous. She spent hours doing her hair and picking out the right suits, smearing on makeup to cover the black smudges under her eyes. When my mom went to work, she was the picture of success. When she still went to work. 

This woman had probably never even met my mom. Or she’d met that version, the one made of makeup and hairspray, stiff and uncrackable. Not the one who spent days crying in bed, or who sobbed so loudly the neighbours called the police and the officers didn’t believe my dad when he said everything was fine, they went into her room and tried to talk to her and she sent them away. 

Or the worst version of her. The one who spoke softly as she burnt the toast that morning breakfast, who smiled at me but whose eyes looked at nothing at all. The one who was already gone. 

(Coming home from school that day. The sound of sirens flooding my ears, then my whole body. Forcing the air out of my lungs and locking them shut. My brain and chest screaming _IT'S NOT TRUE IT'S NOT TRUE THIS ISN'T REAL_. The taste of blackened toast and too much butter as I threw up.)

The politician tried to smile sympathetically, her expression pasted on. 

-/-/-

A few days later, Yuki came up to me at recess. I was sitting at a picnic table, my arms folded and head down, trying to sleep. I hadn't slept the night before. Or the night before that.

I heard footsteps. I behind me to see the silver-haired boy from the funeral. "I'm sorry about your loss. Are you okay?"

I stared. What did he think? "Get the hell away from me."

He walked away, silver hair fading into the grey sky and grey asphalt.

I lay my head down on the table and closed my eyes. I couldn't get the pictures out. The smooth coffin, hidden behind so many heads. Fake tears and fake smiles. Yuki standing there in the black ocean of formal wear.

Every time I looked at him, I saw that coffin.

-/-/-

**Kagura**

I shift my fingernails through the classroom light, bright specks flashing off the pink paint, as I try not to bite them. “Everyone join your groups for the project,” says Miss Yang.

The students arrange themselves into clusters, as fast as if it’s been choreographed. I sit back down alone. 

I’d asked Kimmy last class if I could join her group for the project, but she’d said no. “No offence, Kagura, but you’re not that great a student and I want to do well.”

Kimmy is my best friend, but sometimes I think she hates me. 

“Can I join your group?”

I look up to see a girl standing behind me. She has long black hair, black eyeliner, a short skirt, platform black boots. I’ve seen her in class a few times before, but not often. 

“Sure,” I say. “That would be great, thanks!” 

She takes a seat beside me, smiles, and I smile back. “Rin Sohma,” she says. 

“I’m Kagura. It’s nice to meet you.”

Miss Yang says, “Marquez’s work focuses heavily on symbols. I’d like you to discuss some of the symbols in the novel, and at the end of class we’ll compare our thoughts.”

I add shading to the left side of a heart, then doodle a star next to it. I frown. The three-letter name is still visible beneath the squiggles. I add another star.  
Rin tilts her head, smirks bemusedly. “What are you drawing?” 

“Just notes!” 

She inches her chair closer, peers through the spaces my fingers can’t cover. 

“Your notes are just stars?”

I sigh, hand the notebook over. “It’s just a stupid scribble.” 

“Hey, it’s okay.” The girl shrugs. “I like stars. What’s this say? Tyo?”

“Kyo. Just… a guy.” 

I feel my face go red. “Oh,” says the girl. “I’ve seen him around. Are you dating or something?”

“No…”

“Oh, so he’s like a friend?”

“…Not really.”

“It’s kind of weird to write out someone’s name if you don’t even know them.”

“I know him. We were friends as kids, we just haven’t talked much lately.”

“You’re sure you actually like him and not just your idea of him?”

“It’s not really your business.”

To my surprise, the sharpness of her tone depletes. “Sorry. Sometimes I don’t have a filter.” 

“Kagura and Isuzu,” Miss Yang’s voice jolts me to attention. “What do you think the symbols mean?”

Rin says, “Nothing.”

The teacher sighs. “Elaborate, please.”

“Marquez doesn’t say what they mean. The whole plot is structured around characters trying to interpret signs, but no one agrees on an answer. Things just happen. Everyone decides for themself what they mean.”

“Thank you, Isuzu. That’s surprisingly insightful. Matt, your thoughts on this.”

“What do you mean ‘surprisingly,’” Rin mutters under her breath as the class discussion continues. She reapplies her deep red lipstick. “What?” she says, catching me watching.

“I just didn’t expect you to have read the book.”

“I’m not dumb.”

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant… you seem cool. Like you’d have better things to do than work on English homework.”

A corner of her mouth crinkles upward. “Thanks. I miss a lot of class, so reading gives me something to do.” 

I fiddle with the friendship bracelet Kimmy made, twisting the pink beads. “Do you think you’d be able to help me on the assignment? I’m not doing very well in this class, to be honest.”

She shrugs. “I guess. Are you free after school today?”

“That would be perfect!” My voice comes out too loudly. Kimmy’s table snickers. Rin shoots them a look and the group quiets. 

I’ve never had such a cool friend before. 

-/-/-

After class, I meet with Rin at a table in the foyer. The jangle of laughter and conversation fills the air as students pour towards the exits. 

“I’ll just get my textbook from my locker and then we can head out,” I say. 

“Head out?” Her black eyes narrow. 

“Is that okay? I thought we could work at my house.” 

She looks at me intently, and a line of ice runs up my spine. “Who’s going to be there?” 

“Just me and my parents. But they’ll leave us alone!” I add, when she frowns. “They’ll just be happy I’m studying.” 

She continues to eye me silently for a few incredibly long seconds. Then she nods. “Okay. Let’s go.” 

-/-/-

I pull up a chair so Rin and I can sit together at the desk. She looks at my room, taking in the details of the pink curtains, stuffed animals, sheets with patterns of smiling flowers. 

“It’s kind of… immature, I guess,” I say. 

“No, it’s nice,” she says. “Very… happy.” 

“Thanks. What’s your room like?”

“Just plain. I’m moving out as soon as I can, so I didn’t bother decorating.” 

“Ah okay. Are you going to stay living in Calgary?”

“I’ll go anywhere. I just need to get out of that house.”

“So, um, in the first chapter, this scene is a flashback, right?” 

“No, it flashes forward. Here, this paragraph–“

She explains the story and I take notes, sometimes asking questions. It’s not as hard as I expected – the plot is written out of order, but once I make a list of the events, I understand them. Talking to Rin, I see how the book fits together, whereas when I first tried to read it, I was so nervous that I couldn’t connect one sentence to another. 

“Thanks so much,” I say. “I really thought I was going to fail this class.” 

“It’s okay. It seems like you understand it better than you thought. But if you’re so worried about failing, why don’t you just go into the lower level?” 

I slide the beads along my friendship bracelet. “Everyone I know is in this class. I don’t want to be alone.” 

“You mean Kim or whatever? She’s an asshole.” 

“She’s not that bad.” 

“She was pretty awful to you in class today.”

“That’s just her sense of humour. She’s nicer when it’s just us.” 

“If someone doesn’t have the integrity to be your friend in public, they’re not your friend. She can’t treat you like shit and then expect your company when she gets lonely.” 

My vision blurs and my smile wavers. 

“Shit,” says Rin. “I’m sorry. Ignore me, I always go too far.” 

“No, you’re… you’re right. It’s just–“

The door opens and Rin jumps, head whipping back to look behind us. 

“Hi girls,” says my mom. “Would either of you like some tea? Kagura, sweetie, are you okay?” 

“Oh, hi mom – yeah, I’m good, just a little stressed for the test, but my friend is helping me. This is Rin, we have English together.” 

“Nice to meet you, Rin.” My mom extends a hand. Rin stares at it like an alien has just materialized in front of her. Then she shakes it. “Nice to meet you,” she mumbles. I realize she’s… nervous? But that doesn’t make sense. Rin isn’t the kind of person who would be nervous. 

My mom leaves and I look back at the textbook, sipping my green tea. “So in this section, Marquez is showing the protagonist’s flaws, but he’s also showing he’s not the only one in the town with these problems… Is that right?”

“Yeah,” says Rin. “It’s getting late, I should go.”

“Are you sure? I have some ice cream if you’d like a snack – to thank you for all your help–“ 

“No. Thanks, but I’m not feeling well.” 

“Do you want some Tylenol?”

“It’s fine.”

“Okay. I hope you feel better. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” She zips up her long black coat and grabs her backpack. As she walks to the door, she stops. “Um, thanks for having me over.” 

“Thanks for coming,” I say, but she’s already gone. 

-/-/-

**Akito**

The mall thrums with voices as Kisa and I pour bubble tea. Over and over. Telling strangers to have a good night, so many times that the words feel like an incantation. By the time the crowd thins, my wrists ache from the repetitive motion and I no longer register faces above the exchange of paper, plastic, coins. Across the food court, the windows shine, panels of starless blue-black. 

As I scoop the powder for a blackberry tea, my eyes catch on a girl across the room. 

A girl with a dog. 

"Do you know the time?" I ask Kisa. She looks up from under her bangs. They've grown longer, beginning to hide her eyes. 

"Um, s-seven fifty... eight." 

Two minutes to closing. "Thanks," I say. She didn't seem this shy before. I consider whether to say something, but decide against it. I don't know her particularly well.

At exactly 8:00, I pack the fruit into the fridge, pushing thoughts from my mind of the sugar in the nectarines and raspberries, how good it would feel to give in. I wrap saran wrap over the sweet-sour pulp, think of the apples I'll eat once I get home. The routine that keeps me controlled. 

I lock the fridge and walk towards Tohru's table.

"Hi," I say. 

She looks up from her phone and smiles. 

"Oh, hi, Akito! I was wondering if you'd be here tonight." 

The black dog looks up at me seriously. It lies on the floor, wearing a blue vest and observing the emptying food court. I wonder how long they've been here. "This is Chella," says Tohru. Chella eyes me suspiciously.

"So, you just stopped by on your way home from school?" I say. 

"Yeah — uh, well, I had to buy groceries." She gestures at the bags laid out on the table in front of her. "So I thought I'd come by and say hi." 

_Why?_ I think, but out loud I say, "Oh. Thanks." 

"It's okay. It's always nice to talk to you."

"It's good to see you again. Do you... want some help with your bags?"

"It's okay!" she says, smiling. She picks up the bags, three in one hand, two and the dog leash in the other. She looks like she's about to topple over.

"...Are you sure?"

"Yup!"

"I don't mind helping." 

"Well, um, okay, if you really want to." 

I take three of the bags. The weight strains against the plastic, cutting at the circulation in my fingertips. She walked here with five of these? 

"This is a lot of groceries," I say. I need to say something, and that sounds neutral enough.

"Yeah, my cousins are coming for dinner tomorrow, so my grandpa and I wanted to make something special." 

"Oh. That sounds nice to see them."

"Yeah. Well," her smile slips, but she quickly puts it back in place. "We don't always get along, but my grandpa’s looking forward to seeing them, so… Yeah, it should be okay.”

The tightness in my throat loosens. She’s a kind person, but she still has people she doesn’t get along with. Knowing that makes her seem less superhumanly perfect. Makes me feel less tarnished. 

“It’s their loss if they don’t get along with you,” I say. “No offence.”

She smiles. “None taken. How have your first two weeks of school been?”

“Good. My classes are going well." We walk towards the mall exit, Chella wagging her tail. "So you live with your grandpa?" 

"Yes, he has a house over in Sunnyside, so I'm staying with him until I go to college next year." 

"That seems good," I say. 

"Thanks!" 

She seems almost as nervous as I am. Does that make it less awkward or twice as awkward? We step into the evening air, a wave of cool oxygen after the mall's artificial circulation. Between skyscrapers, the streetlamps hover in greyish gold.

She says, "He has trouble with his back, so I help out around the house. And I needed a place to stay, so it worked out well." 

"Yes, it makes a big difference to have a safe environment," I say, hoping to lead her into saying why she needed a place to stay. I have this horrible hope that if she's like me, another person with a screwed-up home life, I won't scare her away. 

But she just smiles and says, "It does. I'm very lucky." 

"My family is back in Lethbridge," I say. 

She says. "Do you miss them?"

"It's okay. I miss my cousin sometimes, but he visits. I'm not really close with any of the others."

After it's out of my mouth, I worry it's inappropriately depressing. But she nods. "That's hard. But it’s good you came here – you can meet new friends, and sometimes that’s more important. The family you choose, instead of just the one you’re born into." 

"Yes, that's... probably true."

She smiles again. "If you ever want company, just let me know." 

"Thank you. You too — if you ever need some space from your cousins, my place is quiet." 

“I’d love that. Thank you for the invitation.”

“It’s okay. Here, I’ll write down my number for you. It’s a house phone, so I can’t text though.” 

“Thanks! Hm, I text a lot. I guess I’ll just have to find you in person then to talk. You know, if that’s okay with you.”

I smile. “I’d like that.” 

We walk past the drugstores and apartment complexes into a neighbourhood of pastel-tone houses. Willow branches dangle over snowy but neatly-pruned lawns, still retaining a few veins of green in their leaves. 

Tohru walks towards a pale blue house, Chella a few steps in front of her. “I should start making the dumplings for tomorrow. Thanks for all your help with the groceries.”

“It’s nothing. I enjoyed talking to you.”

“You too! I hope we can do it again soon.”

“Are you going to be at the party this weekend?” I try to force my voice to sound casual.

“I am! Darren’s, right?”

“That’s right. I’ve never actually met him, to be honest.” 

“I haven’t either. I’m kind of surprised I got invited; I don’t really have a lot of friends at our school." 

“It’s their loss,” I say. “I don’t know how anyone wouldn’t like you.”

“Thank you. That's kind. I don’t know if people dislike me — it’s more they just don’t know what to say. They don’t want to say the wrong thing, so they end up saying nothing.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Besides, I have good friends, like you and Kyo — that’s more important than having a lot.” 

“That’s true.” We set the groceries down on her front porch as she fiddles the key in the lock. “You know,” I say, while I have the chance, “I’m glad you talked to me on the first day of school. And I’m glad we… this.” 

“You too. It was the best trip home from the grocery store I’ve had in a while.” 

I laugh. 

She says, “So I’ll see you at the party, then.”

“See you then.” 

Tohru and Chella disappear inside the house, and I begin the walk back downtown. I think of the photography book, how it would be nice to have a camera right now. To capture the dark branches on deep lilac sky, and the grass in the low gold evening, fighting through the snow. 

At home, as I reorganize my backpack and fill in a chemistry worksheet. As I brush my teeth, I realize I didn’t even calculate the calories of the walk home. For a whole evening, I hadn’t wanted to disappear.


	7. VII: the blast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akito attends Darren's party, hoping to see Tohru. But will this chaotic environment lead to fun or disaster?

**Akito**

Rin and Jazzy arrive at my apartment a few hours before the party is due to start, each wearing a backpack and an expression that cannot bode well for me. Jazzy literally bounces as he bursts through the door, and Rin smiles with none of the usual irony in the curvature of her red lips.

I’ve barely said hello when Rin begins rifling through my closet and Jazzy dumps the backpacks out on my bed. A sea of black fabric pours out, anemonied with touches of neon.

“You don’t have many clothes,” says Rin, as she flips through black jeans, black hoodies, and bare hangers. I silently pray she loses interest before she reaches my drawer full of boxers and sports bras that I shrunk in the wash. I don't know how I'd even begin to explain that situation.

“No worries, I brought lots,” says Jazzy. A ball of clothes hits me in the chest. “Put these on. Oh, and this.” He flings something eye-burningly green, which lands on my face with a gentle _whump._

I leave the room and close the washroom door behind me, sliding shut the lock. Examining the bundle in my hands, I find black jeans covered in silver buckles and chains, flourescent green fishnet sleeves, and a holey black t-shirt spattered with a red-blue maze. Apparently fashion means making small children go colourblind.  
I pull on the pants, then don the t-shirt over the fishnet creation. I try to look at the results, but the tiny sink-mirror makes that difficult. I lie on my back on the countertop, legs folded, knees nearly touching the ceiling. When that doesn't work, I climb up to stand on the toilet lid and lean sharply sideways. 

Too far. Slipping from the smooth plastic, the world goes vertical. My reflection flails like a goldfish escaped from its tank. The back of my head strikes the metal bathtub, and fireworks explode behind my eyes. With a gasp, my lungs snap shut and black sand blots out my vision just long enough to visualize the headline: _Local Teen Dies in Tragic Toilet Mishap._

"Hey!" shouts Rin, pounding on the door. "You okay?"

I force my lungs to fill and manage to cough out, "F-fine!" Eyes closed, I wait for the sparks to die down. The air seems to be moaning. I don't know whether the sound of the bathtub is still reverberating around the room, or if the ringing is stuck inside me.

After a moment I open my eyes, wait for the room to stop tilting to the left, and rise to my feet. This time, without the aid of the mirror, I look down at myself. 

The clothes are tighter than anything I would pick. The bright colours flash like a warning. On the other hand, the psychedelic pattern prevents the eye from getting a hold on the shape of my body.

I'll throw on a coat before I go, cover up all the skin left exposed. Even if it's just my arms visible through the fishnet sleeves, I'll feel wrong without it — as though my body is escaping, awkward and out of control. It's the same way I feel when I gain weight; like everyone around is watching me, eyes tugging at my clothes, prying right down to my exposed heartbeat. I feel _wrong._

If I have to have a body, I'd rather it goes as unnoticed as possible.

I break my gaze from the mirror and return to the living/bed/kitchen/dining room, where my self-invited guests are wearing my clothes, and, in Jazzy's case, my window dressing.

"Those are my curtains," I say, staring at the two pieces of white fabric. He's wrapped one around his waist, tied the other in a kind of scarf/crop top combination.  
"I'll give them back after the party." He seems to think this is sufficient explanation and turns back to pulling my blue rainboots onto his feet. My faded black jacket is long and flowing on him. Paired with the diaphanous curtains, blond hair glimmering in the gold autumn light that spills through the window, he's surprisingly glamorous for someone wearing hand-me-downs and a pair of curtains from Value Village. With acidic blue lipstick and eyeliner, he glows like an androgynous mer-person amidst black-and-white waves.

Rin and Jazzy continue to apply makeup and perform complicated hairstyling procedures for the next hour. I give in and let them spike my hair. At least I manage to escape without lipstick. 

When they're done, Jazzy has dyed both my sink and random chunks of his hair blue and green, Rin's eyes appear to glow in the sparkling darkness painted around them, and the sun has gone down. 

We step out into the evening air, shards of moonlight gleaming on the skyscrapers. I don't recognize the figure the glass and steel reflects back — a young person in (borrowed) combat boots, hair spikey as confidence, framed by two talkative teenagers. No, not just teenagers. Friends.

Jazzy catches me looking and flashes a blue-lipsticked grin. "We," he says, "are some badass weirdos."

I laugh, filling my throat with the chill city air.

-/-/-

The address leads us to a large, plain beige building at the end of a muddy alleyway. At first I think it must be the wrong place, but Rin and Jazzy stride forward, and as we draw nearer, the dark pulse of bass strums the air. 

"Hey!" Before we can knock, the door opens to the hyperactive grin of a teenage boy in a purple Headache Glitch band t-shirt. Black and gold jewelry sparks in his ears and down his arms as he throws them open to embrace us. I pull back and reach for a handshake. 

"Akito isn't the touchy-feely type," says Rin. "Akito, this is Darren."

"Cool, come in," says Darren, accepting my handshake. "And no worries, I shoulda asked first." He smooths back his carefully disheveled blue hair with one hand, and with the other offers Jazzy a silver beer can. "There's a bunch more drinks over there if anyone else wants," he says, pointing into the glittering black-whiteness of strobe lights. 

As my eyes focus past the velvet darkness and frenetic radiance, the environment is like nothing I've ever seen before. There's no furniture or decoration, save for criss-crosses of wooden beams, a plywood staircase, some crates and plastic lawn chairs. Some sections of wall shine with white paint, while others consist of bare metal, wood, and nails. I make a mental note not to get too close to the peripheries of the room. 

There's no way I'll be able to find Tohru in this chaos. There must be a hundred people, at least. Their dancing shakes the concrete floor as their bodies swim in multicoloured light. I can't tell if I recognize any of their faces. No one seems fixated on any rules of dance; the song shifts from dubstep to thrash metal, and moshers begin to waltz. The speakers strain against the onslaught of sound, or maybe it's my ears; a buzzing, twitching sensation pushes through me, mosquitos battering my skull. The frantic lights are so dominating they seem to take up space themselves, shoving me, compressing me deeper into myself, bending down my spine increment by increment. If I stay here, I'll be bent down to nothing. 

"Let's go," says Rin, an arm around my shaking shoulders as she leads me into the crowd. Her body sways as she moves her limbs around in fluid, complicated patterns. I try to copy her. Her eyes meet mine. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You're a good dancer."

She must not know her own skill; all I'm doing is flashing back a lacklustre imitation at her. I say, "I've never done this before."

"Most people here haven't — not like this. Darren's cousin owns the club, and his present to Darren is letting him use it for the day."

"That sounds illegal."

"Maybe, maybe not. It went out of business years ago, so officially it's just a building with a kickass sound system and colourful lights now. There's no alcohol license; some people just brought their own."

"Do you go to things like this a lot?"

"When I feel like it."

The song switches to something that drowns out my words and thoughts. I feel like I'm floating. On a cloud, in a crowd. I completely lose myself — literally. If I were asked to say where I end and the people around me begin, I would be wordless. When the song ends and my trance snaps, I look for Rin but can't find her.  
My mouth is dry. Smoke fouls the air, yellow and grey tastes that leave scratches in my lungs. The too-warm sense of panic tentacles through my veins, needles at my skin from within, wet-hot and strangling. I'm simultaneously huge, ungainly, too big for my body and splitting through my edges, and too small too exist at all.

I am alone.

As I push against the barrage of teenagers, waves of bodies and music crashing against me, someone puts their hand on my shoulder. "Where are you going?" Jazzy sways forward, bumping into me. I try to disentangle myself from him, but he laughs and takes both my hands. "Don't leave me! Let's dance." 

I look into his eyes. To my surprise, they hold a genuine note of panic, their blue liquid trembling. His eyeliner is smudged. Was he crying? 

"Okay," I sigh, although I don't think he hears me — it's hard to sigh audibly over a rendition of You Are My Sunshine that measures on the Richter scale. So I nod. Then, louder, I say, "Alright! But you don't leave me either!"

He grins. "Deal." 

I feel simultaneously like I'm going to explode and like I want to go to sleep on the floor. I'm no longer sure what's a strobe light and what's my own dizziness, but I'll re-hydrate once this is over. Right now I can't push past the mob, never mind figure out where I am in the room. Right now, it's easier to let someone else lead. I don't even have to imitate, I just follow. Step step step, sway, step step step. A classical dance to — what is this? — something with frenzied, incoherent singing, and drums like smashing trashcans with baseball bats. The chaos is paradoxically calming. My internal and external reality match.

We end up beside Kureno, who in black jeans, a white dress shirt, a black-and-green striped tie, and minimal eyeliner, stands out as one of the most normal-looking people here. Conspicuous because he's trying so hard not to be. A flash of white. The lights shoot rainbows through brushstrokes of blond as he dances with a girl I've never seen before, someone purple-dreadlocked and green-dressed. Her movements parallel Rin's, and his, I'd imagine, mine from a few moments ago.

Jazzy and Kureno start talking about something – or Jazzy shouts words and Kureno makes polite noises when they're appropriate. I don't know what Jazzy's talking about. The bits I make out seem to be in code. I'm not sure he even knows what he's saying. "So then he was like... thought I was joking! All this fuckin' time... He asked me... slightly male... And he was like, 'What's the point?'... like I was fuckin' trying to piss him off.... Maybe a little bit... Wanna be free, you know? ... I'm a free bee... And anyway, what is it with... shoes?" 

It's about this moment I realize he's drunk out of his mind. That also explains why he's now using me as a support stand rather than a dance partner.

Kureno says, "Jazzy, I'm going to get you water. Akito, do you want anything?" 

"Gemme a red bull and vodka," says Jazzy.

"NO."

"Fine then, I'll take a... a... oh shit, I'm gonna puke." Jazzy slumps off my shoulder and onto his hands and knees on the floor.

"Here, I'll help you find the bathroom," says Kureno, extending a hand to help him up. "Akito, do you want anything when we come back?"

"Diet cola." Kureno nods, and the two of them fades into the swarm.

I catch sight of a nearby staircase and push my way towards it. Success! The crowd thins out around the edges, and I manage to get a space on the steps. There are already a dozen people sitting here, but after being out in that, this is spacious. Even the air seems less smoky.

Nearby, a teenage couple is fighting. At least, I think they're a couple, and I think they're fighting. I can only see the back of his head, blue light spilling through long hair. Her face is blank, but it looks like she's yelling. She stands stony between the dancers, hands clenched at her sides. 

Then she turns and walks towards me, and he turns to follow.

Yuki?

She stops in front of me, brown eyes boring into mine. In an affectless voice, she says, "Do you know this guy?" Jabs a finger at Yuki. 

I try to be safe with my answer. "He goes to my school." 

"Is he always like this?"

"Like what?" interjects Yuki. 

"So perfect. Like you'd never lose your temper, or have a bad day." 

"I'm not an angry person. Of course I have bad days, though."

"You never talk about it."

I begin to back away while they're distracted.

"You want me to complain?" says Yuki. There's no anger in his voice; just confusion.

"Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes... it doesn't feel like we know each other at all, doesn't feel like we're even in the same room." She tugs at her brown hair. "What do you want with me? I've had text messages more passionate than... than whatever _this_ is!" She closes her eyes and massages them at the corners.

"Let's talk about this," says Yuki. "We can go somewhere quieter."

"No," says the girl. She takes a deep breath. Although her mouth is a flat line, she's shaking slightly. Or maybe it's just the floor. "I need to think right now. Please let me be." 

"Okay," says Yuki. He reaches a hand towards her, but she doesn't look up. He lets it fall, then walks away. 

She opens her eyes. "Sorry you had to see that," she says. Her unbroken eye contact makes me squirm inside my skin, but I don't look away. "Do you want to dance or something?" 

I nod and we walk into the storm of bodies. The speakers thrum and fizz with electric violins, something I hadn't even known existed. Our movements start out awkward — she waits for me to lead and I don't know how, so we trip over each other's feet. Finally we resign ourselves to swaying in the same general vicinity. 

Someone taps my shoulder and I turn to face Kureno. “Your soda,” he says.

“Diet?”

He nods. In one gulp, I down the liquid in the plastic cup. The lukewarm bubbles vibrate down my throat, phosphoric acid fuzzing on my tongue. It does little to assuage my dizziness, but it will have to be enough.

Kureno reaches out and takes my empty cup. He sips his peach cooler, the glass bottle beaded with cold. 

Fuck it. 

“Where did you get that?” I say. He points past the panchromatic thump of moshers. 

“Have you drank before?” he says. 

“Of course,” I say, though I know the stolen sips in junior high probably don’t count. 

I push through the crowd, blood thudding through my ears the way it does when I’ve made up my mind. Electricity thrums in my fingerprints. On the table, half-eaten pizzas sprawl cold amongst debris of chips, cookies, nachos. They ooze oil onto the cardboard, every food beige and starchy, swollen with empty calories. If I was alone, I would shovel it into my mouth until I vomited. 

But Kureno is still here. I have to find a more socially-acceptable way to binge. 

I look at the bottles spread out before me. Their liquid catches the spatters of coloured light, glittering like potions. Sodas in four liter bottles, unfamiliar drinks in elaborate glasswork: a haphazard art installation. With no idea what I'm doing, but instinct telling me I can't go wrong, I pour liquids into my plastic cup, bubbles leaping delightedly. 

The buzzing in my fingertips gets stronger and stronger until I'm sure I can hear it. Excitement carbonates my blood. In this new city, I'm going to be the type of person who does things like this, who gets drunk and has fun without thinking of the calories. I'll be as effortless as Rin, or as oblivious as Yuki. I'll be happy. 

_(And if it all goes wrong, if I change my mind, I can just throw it up anyway.)_

I bring the concoction up to eye level. It's as green as my sleeves, a colour not found in nature. I take a sip. My mouth fills with acid, bitterness, saccharine fake-fruit. A clash of ginger ale and cola, smudged with almonds, green apple. Pure sugar.

I drink it all down. I make another. 

Kureno's voice hovers over to me. "Be careful."

I don't respond. 

He says, "Make sure you drink water. If you feel sick let me know. I'll take care of you."

"Why are you doing this?"

He thinks for a moment, then says, "It's just what I do." 

"I'll be fine," I say. "I can take care of myself."

I gravitate back towards the storm of bodies. The girl who'd been arguing with Yuki catches my eye and beacons me to rejoin her. The song has shifted to a Beethoven/Kanye mash-up, and she whirls her arms through the air, fingers twisting in elaborate patterns. Like she practiced specifically for this. And she chose me to dance with. Out of everyone, she realized I was special. 

I thought I'd be no one in this city, but here I am, going to parties, being chosen out of everyone. I can be anyone I want, do anything I set my mind to. 

So I choose to dance. Drawing closer to her, I follow impulses rather than rules, let the bassline pulse through my feet and bend my spine to its will. 

The girl continues to twist her arms in patterns, the same ones, over and over. It's beautiful, but detached. Like she's in a world that doesn't quite line up with the one around her. She meets my eyes, still unsmiling. 

"You okay?" I say. 

She nods between her swirling hands. "Just thinking." Then: "I think I messed up again."

"You don't need him," I say. "If things aren't good with Yuki, you don't have to put up with it." 

"They are good, though." Her hands abruptly fall to her sides. She jams the left into her pocket, while the right one of them taps her thigh repetitively. "That's why I got scared. I kept thinking 'When's he going to find out how messed up I am? How long can this last before I scare him away?' So I lost it, and tried to drive him off before he had the chance to abandon me." Her eyes scrunch shut. "Stupid." 

"You're not scary or messed up."

"Thanks." She massages her temples again. "Jury's still out on stupid, though."

"No," I say. "I... I can relate to what you did. But if you're worried he's too perfect... you don't have to be." 

She doesn't react. I continue, "Really. He's not always so suave. When he's quiet, it's not because he's being judgmental, it's because he's as awkward as anyone. The other day he lent our friend Haru his jacket, and Haru found a french fry in the pocket. And one time his brother gave him exploding glitter pants."

"What?"

"It's a long story."

For the first time, the girl laughs. She opens her eyes. "Thanks," she says. Then her smile trembles. "I don't know if I'm unable to connect to people, or if I'm just desperate for a level of closeness that doesn't even exist." 

Her words get caught in my chest and ache there. I know the feeling, I want to say, but I know how much I'd hate to be told that, so I don't say anything. Waves of sound and colour crash on our heads, our silhouettes swollen with light. 

Yuki's annoying, but I still saw the way he looked at her. "He really does care about you," I say. "I know that doesn't fix everything... but it still means something."

She takes my hand and leads me away from the tempest. We stand below the stairs, the sound dulled and our skin graced by soft, cool shadows.

She leans in, and for a moment, I think she's going to kiss me. Instead, she lays her head on my shoulder. "Thank you," she says. 

"It's okay," I say.

_I'll remember this,_ I promise myself. _What it's like to be close to someone._

"I should go find Yuki," she says, and I nod. 

As the girl dissolved into the crowd, I realize she still hasn't told me her name. 

I should get back to the party. I look around at the steel beams, rainbow light swimming in their shine. Bare plywood closes in around me, a corner narrowing to nothing. Flashing lights make the room darker than if there were no lights at all; the cuts of black between strobe lights batter my vision like the space between waking and sleeping, the space where idea doesn't separate from sensation. The black glow kneels over me, a dream of being followed, breath on the back of my neck. 

Maybe, if I don't get out of here now, I never will. 

So I walk, towards the crowd frozen in strobe, their faces sliced in smiles and hair stiff with flight. The flashes and booms go off like little bombs, my feet stuck to the extra gravity of the sticky floor. With something to do — just walk — I can ignore my seasickness. I don't feel bad, really. Just strange. Like my body is a glass of water, insides tilting out-of-sync with the rest of the room. I'm a child at a carnival ride, whirling upside-down in the sky for so long I can't remember what earth felt like.  
I fall down, swallowed in black. 

Wait, no, I'm fine — must have imagined that. There's no detail, no pressure of bruises in my knees or scrapes on my palms. Nevermind. Then somehow I'm back on the stairs, sitting beside Yuki and Britt. Yuki and Britt! Wait, was this where I was trying to go? Doesn't matter. They're talking about something, but I don't care. I try to make my eyes focus as people pass by. 

Green-haired boy. 

Blue-haired girl. 

Pink-haired I-can't-tell. 

Yellow-haired does-it-matter? 

They're all rainbows. Every individual in this twisting mass is a rainbow. Some are black and white rainbows, but still rainbows. I laugh. It's funny. 

Yuki and Britt look at me. Their confusion makes it funnier. I laugh again. Britt's smile looks like it will slide off her face. She meets my eyes and widens her mouth, pretends she sees it too. 

I'll enlighten her. I stand up — body stumbles, unable to keep up with my mind, but that's funny as well. I take her hands like Jazzy took mine, and I lead her into the rainbows. My chest is full of warmth and gold and movement, sparks flying off my lungs with every inhale. They keep me warm but they don't let me stand still. If I stop moving I'll burn down to the ground. Consumed by the black-purple jaws of the room, until I am nothing. Not even ash. Poof. Gone. Laugh. 

"You're in a good mood," says Britt. 

"You're a rainbow," I inform her. 

"Oh," she says. A nod and another sliding smile, slipping sideways like lightning blinking off ice. 

Rin is dancing. I see her. I shout to her, but she doesn't turn her head. I don't mind. I just watch. Her hair is as black as crow's feathers, a long sheet of oil-slick-rainbows rivering down her back. Flying black hair. 

Falling black hair. 

I'm fifteen, I think. Am I fifteen? Sixteen, sixty, six. Every age folds over each other, frozen like strobe lights, angles of ages collapsed into corners. 

I am somewhere. Familiar in a way where the smell turns my chest to ice before I'm even in the door. Sweat, antibacterial handsoap, carpet fibres — recognized before I can name them, recognized in my heart beating so fast, taking up so much space inside me that it seems it will push me out of my skin. 

Home. Not-a-home. The key is cold in my hand, its teeth silent. On my tongue it would taste of blood and iron, my own fingerprints. 

No one answers when I knock. I don't know if it's relief or another wave of fear that floods my system. I turn the key. 

I'm here to thank her for the present she sent me. Then I can leave. But why did she send me a present? I have no idea. One day in the mail at my aunt and uncle's house, a handheld video game system, a note that was only her name. I'd wanted a Gameboy in elementary school, and she'd refused because it had "boy" in the name. Why would she send me that? Never her idea of a suitable present for a girl. Never her idea of a suitable girl. 

Maybe I am here to see if she is okay. Maybe I already know she is not. 

The door gives way and she is the centre of the room. The carpet spreads around her in a still sea. Her eyes are open enough to show white, not enough to see me back. Her hair is dead snakes tangled over her face and the floor. From somewhere there is a sick glisten of blood. From where? Arms legs mouth, one of those or all. It will never wash out of the carpet. _She'll hate that._ The voice of my thoughts is still as the air. 

Her mouth is open. Saliva leaks out of it. A pool whitening the corner of her mouth, then darkening the carpet. She is spilling herself out. Dying in the living room. Is she breathing? I can't tell which movement is her, which is my vision swimming in and out. That black static gnawing at the corners of the room. I am not really here. I am no one. It should be someone else. 

But there is no one else. 

I look for the phone. I find the phone. It's useless. Smashed plastic, wires gutted, shards cutting my fingers, the cord like twisted spiders legs snapped and tied together. I run to the neighbors' house. I'm screaming, I almost break down their door, they ask what's wrong, phone phone phone phone phone I cough, wetness dripping down my face onto my shirt, THE PHONE I NEED THE 

They hand it to me. I'm dialling, my hands stabbing at the buttons, leaving blood on them, mine and hers, my mother is dead I say or she's dying do something do SOMETHING that's your job hold on she says we'll send someone emergency will be there as soon as possible what's your address I tell her I yell her I spit out the numbers I'm collapsed I'm completely collapsed there's nothing left of me but I still can't stop falling 

I shut my eyes but I still see her, over and over and on and on and on, nightmares covering reality, black static swallowing our whole lives, buzzing like cicadas, blotting out the sound and sun, devouring everything there ever was. 

_-/-/-_

"Fuck rainbows," I moan. 

"Dirty mouth," says a voice. Ironically, it sounds like Jazzy's. 

Years pass before I convince my eyes to open. When I do, I'm back at the party. There are faces all around, making up my sky under the ceiling. We're in the corner by the stairs, away from the floor-smashing feet. The dark air swims in and out of focus. 

My face is wet. Sweat? No, it's too cold. Rin is holding a wet cloth against my face. She lifts a cup of water to my lips and I sip. The clear coldness spreads through my chest. My arms and legs feel the same as the floor, a single block of inanimate matter. 

"Thank you," Rin says under her breath. I don't know who she's talking to. I don't think anyone is meant to hear it. 

Kureno, Britt, Yuki, Rin, Jazzy. They're all here. I try to make myself smile. Smiling is how you make people like you, how you show them nothing is wrong. How you convince them to stay. I try to sit up, but I fail. 

Then I realize what happened. I stop smiling. I stand, grit my teeth and try not to show that inside my head, I can feel my brain flipping over and over. 

"You said you'd protect me!" I spit at Kureno. His palms fly up in surrender. "You said you'd keep me safe!" 

He looks at the ground. "I'm so sorry," he says quietly. "I'll drive you to the hospital." 

“I don’t need to go to the hospital! I needed you to keep me safe. Like you promised!” 

“Akito,” says Rin. “Kureno was doing all he could. You fainted dancing, and we’ve all been trying to wake you up.” 

“You could have alcohol poisoning,” says Yuki. “Do you want us to call an ambulance?” 

“No,” I say, shaking but held up by my anger. “It’s over. Leave me alone, just let me —“ I begin to climb the stairs. 

Jazzy grabs my arm. "Let him go," says Rin, and Jazzy does. 

**Rin**

“We can’t just leave him like this.” Jazzy’s eyes are wild. 

“I know,” I say. “But if we argue, he’ll get more agitated. You can’t speak logic to someone having a panic attack — he needs a chance to breathe.” 

“Is he safe up there?” Jazzy asks quietly, looking up at me. In his oversized gown, he suddenly seems very young. 

“I think so. Though someone should probably keep an eye on him just in case.” 

“I’ll do it.” I turn to see Britt. She’d been so quiet I forgot she was here. 

“Thanks,” I say. “Yeah, you weren’t arguing with him, so you’re probably a safe bet.” 

She nods. As she walks away, I see Kureno on the stairs, looking down at his shoes. 

“It’s true,” he says. “I promised to protect him.” 

“There’s nothing you can do now.” I twist the ring on my finger in a circle. “We have to let him calm down. And when he's feeling better, let him know we're here for him." 

"I know," says Kureno. "But sometimes... it doesn't feel like enough." 

"I don't know if it's enough," I say. "But it's all we can do." 

**Akito**

The outside air is a relief on my fevered skin. I sit down on the concrete, lay my head on my knees, and close my eyes. The music fades to a faraway heartbeat. I soak my fingertips in the coolness of the surface beneath me. 

Everything goes black. I accept it. 

Everything goes white. 

Everything goes black. 

When I open my eyes, my vision is split between cement and sky. Blue and grey. I breathe. Air fills my lungs. It's nice. 

I did it. Like that girl said; lost it in front of everyone, let them see how messed up I am. My cards are on the table: Akito Sohma, disaster in human disguise. I thought I'd feel terrible, but I don't feel anything. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe relief. 

I stand and walk. The safety rail comes to my chest. I stretch my hands over it. Spread out my fingers like feathers. Wings. I pull my hands back in, press my palms against my hot, dry eyes. I can fly but I can't cry. When I take my hands away, I see tiny sparks. These quickly fade into the real world. 

I let my jacket fall from my shoulders and tie it around my waist. The air touches my skin. 

Soft rush of passing cars. Breath. I've never seen the sky so blue. 

Someone is humming. I turn around, see a small blond boy sitting at the top of the stairs. He looks right at me. "Yay! You're awake." 

"Who are you? 

"I'm Momiji. I've seen you at school!" 

"I'm Akito." 

"Nice to meet you!" 

"Yeah. You too." There's no sarcasm in my voice. No sincerity, either. Just words. "Why are you out here?" 

He looks sad for a moment. "I was lonely in there." 

"I can understand that." 

"Someone was looking for you. A girl. She's down there." He stands, pointing over the edge. 

Tohru. She's sitting on a bench with Britt. They're not talking, but they don't look mad at each other. 

There's a ladder on the side of the building. I climb over the rail, down the ladder, rust flaking off into my hands. 

"Akito—" says Britt, when I reach the bottom. 

"I don't want to talk about it." 

"Are you okay?" asks Tohru. 

"Yes," I say. "Now, I'm okay." 

"I'm sorry," says Britt. 

"It's okay." 

"You're okay now?" 

"Yes." I pull at the green fabric of my fishnet sleeve. "Thank you for looking out for me." 

"It's okay," says Britt. "It's what friends do." She hugs me, very quickly, then lets go. "I'll tell them you're okay." That one word, so many times. But it's true. 

"Thanks," I say. She walks back into the building. 

I turn to Tohru, "Do you want to go for a walk?" 

"I'd like that." 

She takes my hand. I don't know if it's because she wants me to lead her, or something... else. It doesn't seem like I am leading her. She's not leading me, either. Her hand feels good in mine. I think that's what matters. 

We're in a park, now. There are trees around us, some green with needles, some yellow with leaves. The perfect yellow before they turn brown. 

The sounds of the party are stripped down to drum and bass and ideas. "Do you... want to dance?" I say. 

She smiles. "Yes," she says. And we do. 

We dance all around the park. Between the trees, over the paths, through playground equipment, among the uncut, windblown grass. I start to sing something. I don't know why and I don't know what. The words pass right through me, and then they're gone. My voice jumps too high, too low, no in-between. That's okay. "You have a beautiful voice," she says. 

"Thanks. You have a beautiful... just in general, who you are. You're beautiful. And I'm really, really glad I know you." My heart pushes my chest. My cards are on the table. 

She leans her head on my shoulder. "I'm glad I know you too." 

I laugh. 

"What is it?" she says. 

"Nothing," I say. "I'm just happy." 

Whatever happened to me before, it's over. This isn't intoxication, isn't an old memory, isn't my imagination. It just is. 

Rain starts to fall. Right out of the blue sky, right on to us. We dance as the droplets meet our skin, cool us, slip through our clothes. I don't know how I know how to move like this. I don't need to know anything right now. I just need to be here with her. I've needed this a long time. 

I'm kissing her. She's kissing me. I can taste the rain on her lips. I move my fingers through her soft hair and the water-droplets clinging to it. My hands explore the wonder that is the back of her neck. 

We don't say anything. 

We just are. 


	8. VIII: Wait and See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kagura's night does not go how she expects it to. She meets Uo, Hana, and a drunk stranger. Akito and Tohru have an important conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the support on this story so far! This chapter's title comes from a song by Diamond Rings.
> 
> Science information comes from Wikipedia so feel free to correct me if anything is wrong, haha.
> 
> *Fixed an error where a minor character was called Kimmy, as there is already a Kimi in cannon and it was confusing.

**Kagura**

Light pours out on the sidewalk, under the door of the out-of-business club. Teenage shouts slip through the walls and echo down the empty street. From the sidewalk, my socks shiver with the thump of bass.

It should be dark, but the sky never reaches black because of all the light falling into it. Instead, streetlights stain the clouds the pink-grey of bubblegum on a sidewalk.

Kyo is in there. I spent an hour on the train to get down here. But now that I look at the building, my feet won't move. 

Rin's voice echoes in my mind. _You’re sure you actually like him and not just the idea of him?_

_Do you even know him?_

My legs are lead. I can't go in there. But if I could, would I?

Why did I come here?

“’Ey!” 

I jump at the voice, and it laughs at my reaction. I turn to face a tall white girl with tangled brown hair, ripped jeans, a red hoodie. Her teeth are stained with nicotine, but they flash like stars in the drizzling evening street as she howls with laughter. 

"I like yer backpack! Where'd you get that?" Her shadow blots me out as she comes towards me, towering, grabbing at the limbs of my rabbit-shaped bag.

"U-um, in Chinatown –"

"Cris, leave her alone." An Asian girl with bleached blond hair steps forward, putting a hand on Cris's shoulder. 

"Oh, hey! 'Risa! Didn't know ya were here. Goin' to the party?"

"Nah." The new girl shakes her head. Blond hair falls over her left eye, the long strands fluttering in the wind, neon against the black of her leather jacket. She grinds at a pebble with a scuffed Doc Marten. "Off to see a friend. You wanna come?"

"Sure. Graveyard?"

"Yep. Probably more alive than this place, anyway."

Cris laughs. 

"I thought this party was supposed to be good," I say.

The blond girl shrugs. "I guess if that's what you're into. I liked it as a kid, but now all the drunk assholes, the music too loud to talk... makes me feel like a zombie." 

"You went to places like this as a kid?"

"Well, like, fourteen-fifteen. I didn't think I was a kid at the time." She laughs. "Every kid thinks that."

I never did. Even at seventeen, around the same age they must be, I feel much younger than these girls.

"Besides," she continues. "It's not very interesting being around drunk people when you don't drink."

"Hey," objects Cris. 

"No offence. Did you bring your insulin?"

"'Course." Cris frowns. "I'm not stupid."

"I know." To me, the blonde says, "Do you want us to walk you to the train or something?"

"Oh, um, I was going to go to the party."

"Oh."

"Why do you sound so surprised?" I say, worried.

"You just... don't look like the type."

"What's wrong with how I look?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's just different."

I look down at myself. Pink skirt, white knee socks, sequinned shirt, pink raincoat. My bunny backpack. "Oh."

That finally gets a smile from her.

"I'm not as defenceless as I look, you know."

"That's not exactly a great achievement."

"I mean it! I'm the best in my judo group. Go ahead, try any move you want on me. I can block it."

"Any move?"

"Any."

She walks right up to me. Her green eyes look into mine, holding me, trapping me. Her mysterious smile makes me want to smile as well, even though I have no idea what the joke is. She's really, really close to me.

"Ping," she says, as her fingernail lightly flicks my forehead.

Laughing, she and Cris begin to walk away. "Wait!" To my surprise, they stop. "What's your name?"

"It's Arisa."

"Cris," adds Cris.

They resume walking.

I jog up to them. "I'm Kagura. Now that we know each others' names, we can be friends."

"So that's how it works, huh?"

Cris says, "Nice to met ya."

"Can I come with you?"

"I thought you were going to the party," says Arisa.

"I was, but... you're right. I wouldn't really fit in there."

I stare down at our shoes, the asphalt sparkling between us. "You okay?" says Arisa. "Shit, I didn't mean – like, I'm sure you can fit in anywhere you want. It was a stupid comment on my part." 

"No," I say. "I was... I wanted to see someone there – but it was a bad idea. I shouldn't just be chasing after the idea of someone, not when there's the real world in front of me. Like, I should be doing something with my life, not just deluding myself about someone. Right?"

Arisa says gently, "Hey, it's your life. And... I think you should live it however you want to. If you want to come with us, that's cool." She gives a short laugh. "I can't really promise it's the real world, though." 

"Welcome abroad," says Cris, saluting me.

We walk down the hill to the cemetery, auras of traffic lights shining in the branches. The fine drops of rain harden into frost, haloes glowing in the stream of headlights on the highway. I shiver. 

"Here." Arisa shrugs off her leather jacket. She hands it to me. 

"Oh, no – I mean – are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

I switch it for my pink raincoat. It is much warmer. "Do you... want this?" I say, offering my coat.

"Sure. Thanks." She slips on my raincoat. Somehow even that looks cool on her, striding through the darkening streets. 

Cris chatters about sitcoms she's seen, swinging her arms in excitement. I'm not sure why I was afraid of her before. She seems like a kid, so enthusiastic. Almost helpless. Arisa nods as she talks, calls her back when she walks ahead and wanders down the wrong roads. 

The city dims as we walk towards the gravestones. Dark grass whispers under our shoes. As shadows lengthen around us, the cobalt sky fades to black. Soft shells of light swell on the horizon; as we approach, I realize it's a girl lighting candles. 

"Oh. Hello," she says. She wears black clothes, a black veil. Her raven hair is tied back in a braid. 

"Hi, Hana. This is Kagura; she wanted to come with us."

"Nice to meet you." The black-clothed girl extends a black glove, speaking in a monotone, though her eyes sparkle. I shake her hand.

She smiles slightly, then kneels down to light another candle.

"Is this... someone you knew?" I say, looking at the name flickering on the headstone.

Hana shakes her head. "No. I just like to come here." She looks out over the sea of graves. "Some people leave flowers. Others, they don't get visited. I think it's nice for them to be remembered, even if it's just by a stranger." 

"They'd probably like that," I say.

"Thank you." 

We walk from grave to grave, watching as she leaves tealights on the stones. Even Cris is silent. 

As my eyes adjust to the light, I realize we're not alone. Figures move across the black grass, quiet as shadows. I can't make out their features in the dark. Someone presses paper to the stones to make etchings of the names. Someone is drawing one of the statues of an angel.

The nighttime has its own worlds that I never knew existed.

As we walk up the hill of the cemetery, the city diminishes behind us. At the top is a grave seperate from the others. We crawl through a hole in the chainlink fence to reach it. There's no name. "Why is this one all alone?" I say.

"They might not have been well liked. Or it may be someone who took their own life," says Hana. "Or maybe no one knew who they were."

My eyes start to water. It just seems like too much – to be that alone in life, and then still be an outsider even after. 

"It's good what you do," I say.

"Yeah," says Arisa. 

We stand without talking. Below us, the city flickers like a circuitboard. Stars fill the patches between clouds.

Eventually, Arisa says, "I should go home."

I check the time on my phone and jolt.

"What's wrong?" says Hana.

"I didn't realize it was so late. The train isn't going to be running, and the taxi's fifty dollars to my house... My parents are going to be annoyed."

Arisa exhales. She hesitates, then says, "Do you want to come over to my house?  
I mean, it's not a great place, but it's two blocks away." 

"Really? Would that be okay?"

"Yeah. Just... yeah, it's fine. Cris and Hana were going to come over anyway."

"Thank you." I hug her and she stiffens, then pats my back. 

-/-/-

Arisa lives in a basement. When we walk through the upstairs part of the house to get there, she hisses at me to be very quiet, and even drunk Cris is cautious not to bump into any of the furniture, which seems to be perilously balanced on itself. Hana descends the stairs ahead with silent elegance. I can hear someone snoring in the house, but once we get down the stairs, careful not to creak them, we can talk at normal volume.

Arisa's room is noticeably more organized than the rest of the house, even though it looks like a normal teenage room. There are some stuffed animals that remind me of my own, and I feel myself get calmer. There's really no reason I should be scared, now that the mysterious snoring person isn't going to be woken up. No one has said this person is dangerous, but I feel it. It's in the way we move, the way the air pulses.

Something goes bump and I suppress a cry. But when I turn around, I see it's just Cris, flopped down on the floor. She injects a shot of insulin, says "G'night," and is instantly out of it.

I call my mom on my cell phone and tell her I'm sleeping over at a friend's house. "With no pajamas or sleeping bag?" she says. I tell her it's fine, there's stuff here. She offers to bring mine over, but I say she doesn't have to. She asks which friend and I lie and tell her Tammy. She asks if she should pick me up in the morning, but I tell her I'll walk, it's not far.

Arisa is looking at me when I hang up the phone, lying sideways on her bed. Her whole face is sideways. A vertical line of sight. I notice for the first time that she looks really tired.

"What?" I say, followed by a short, confused laugh.

"Nothin'. Just thinking. Do you think about it?"

"About what?"

"When you were talking on the phone with your mom. Do you think about it, like everything you'll say, or does it just kind of happen?"

"Are you mad at me for lying to her?"

"That's not what I meant. It's just... it's weird to me when people get along with their family. That's all. Nevermind." She passes me a blanket and I bundle myself on the floor. We lay there together beside Hana's soundless sleep and Cris's loud snores. Arisa lays blankets over them too, then turns off the lights.

"It's okay," I say. "I guess I'm lucky. My family are nice."

"Yeah," says Arisa, with a short laugh. "Pretty lucky."

"How do you know Cris? She seems... different, than you and Hana."

"Saw her in a taxi downtown." I hear her shift in her blankets. Beside us, a square of orange light falls through the window, shining on the dusty carpet fibers. "She was mostly passed out, and I wanted to make sure she was okay, so I tapped on the window and asked. She said she was going home, but she didn't even know her address, and her phone was dead. 

"The driver just said she was drunk, but I didn't want to leave her. I was... I was really scared, to be honest. Managed to convince her to come with me to the clinic, and it turned out she wasn't just drunk but diabetic. Lost her coatcheck tag at a club and the dickhead staff wouldn't let her have her insulin out of her coat."

"You probably saved her life."

"I don't know. I just... I'm glad she's better. And we're friends now, so that's cool."

"I don't think I would have been brave enough," I say quietly. "To just go up to a stranger and know what to do. How to help them. "

Uo laughs uncomfortably. “It wasn’t brave, really. I just felt like I had to do something.” She rolls over on her side. "I should probably sleep. I have work tomorrow."

"Okay," I say. "Thank you again."

She doesn't hear me. In the square of rust-coloured light, I see a piece of folded paper, placed delicately on a shelf, oddly organized amidst the chaos of clothes on the floor. 

I pick up the paper and see that it's a card. Inside, it says, "Marry Chrismas! from Cris." On the outside is a hand-drawn tree. It's incredibly detailed, with attention to the shapes of each branch beneath the hundreds of individual leaves. They cast shadows on each other, affecting the whole look of the tree. It must have taken hours to draw.

For some reason this makes me want to cry. 

I set the card back down, carefully in its place, then lay on my back, looking into the blackness of the ceiling. Thinking about how one city can contain so many different worlds.

**Akito**

I call in sick for the weekend. The manager isn't thrilled, but at this point I'm too tired to care. My head feels like it's in a pot of boiling water and the rest of my body has turned to ice. 

Saturday I literally do nothing but sleep. Sunday I eat all the cereal in the apartment, then go back to sleep again. I dream I’m lying in bed, the same room, the same sickness. I hear music coming from nowhere, sometimes beautiful, sometimes distorted and frightening. A million different imaginary instruments shift in on themselves like waves. I know I'm awake when the music stops. 

When the weekend is over, I'm not convinced all of Friday hasn't been a fever dream as well.

I skip school on Monday. I'm not sick anymore, exactly, but I feel emptied out. Sleep itself has become work; the more time I spend in bed, the more exhausted I become. I tell myself that at least when I’m asleep, I’m not eating, or doing anything else wrong. But even that doesn’t fully assuage the guilt. Who would choose a life measured only in absences?

After hours of watching the light filter through the bare windows, I pry myself from the sheets. Step dizzily into the shower, I splash the sleep from my eyes and scrub my skin until it burns. Then I wrap my body in a towel and carry myself to the kitchen like a load of soggy laundry. Fumbling, my hands feeling far away from my body, I manage to choke a few bites of overripe banana down past the lump in my throat. 

This city was supposed to be my escape. I can do anything I want. Be anyone I want. So why do I want to lie in bed and starve myself, the same way I did back home? Why do I want to pick fights with the only friends I’ve made, yell at them and then avoid them for days? 

And Tohru. The girl I – yes, I like her. A lot. When I think her, my heart speeds up and my lungs snap shut. That night, dancing with her and then walking her home – it felt so right. Natural. 

But now I can’t imagine ever seeing her again. Having to hide, day after day, what a mess I am, until I inevitably explode on her. Like with Nikki. Like with my friends. Or at least, the people who could have become my friends. 

I need to get out of this apartment. I brush my teeth, shrug on a t-shirt, two hoodies, and a pair of jeans, flip open the deadbolt, and leave. After so long in the dark, the afternoon sunlight traces my eyes with pain. 

I walk the twelve blocks to the city library. Inside, I wander the sections, accumulating a pile of tomes. I don’t know what I want, so I grab everything that could interest me – classics I’ve never read but pretend to know because everyone else seems to, but also new releases, things with interesting summaries on the back, dusty ones that look lonely, even violating the age-old adage and choosing ones with eye-catching covers. _Learn to Draw Faces?_ Sure. _Mysteries of the Cosmos?_ Why not? I leave with a two-foot stack and my heartbeat pulsing in my fingertips, like I’ve gotten away with something. 

As I walk towards home, the bag of books heavy in my hand, I see a store selling antiques. I enter. It smells like dust and wood-polish. I pick up a few objects, feeling their textures and weight, old paper and leather and pottery and fabric. They have an aura of fragility to them, but the fact that these have belonged to other people, been parts of lives and homes, survived all this time in safety, is reassuring.

Some of the objects seem much too new to qualify as antiques. Pikachu figurines, toy guns with foam bullets, a remote control that doesn't seem to go with anything, stuffed animals that make noises when squeezed, their mechanically-stitched seams still intact. A small box of used crayons. Who would bring that in? Were they that desperate for money? Does the shopkeeper really expect someone to buy them? _Will_ someone buy them?

A camera sits on the same table, the kind of camera that still uses film and prints the photos out as soon as they're taken, so you can watch the gray ghosts solidify to colour right in your hand. I buy the camera. It's five dollars, the most I’ve spent on anything besides groceries in the month I've been here.

Finally, the supermarket. I enter the automatic doors. Inside the cube of consumerism, fluorescent lights spill across the dirty linoleum. Middle-aged women, twenty-somethings in sweatpants, semi-verbal toddlers, clamour to fill the aisles. The squeak of shoes and shopping cart wheels echo as though underwater. I check the list in my pocket, repeatedly, to clear the noise from my head. 

Diet cola. Spinach, eggs, mustard. Yogurt. Broccoli. Lemon. Celery. I grab a box of strawberries, too, rationalizing that I might accomplish something special, work really hard and deserve a reward. The red juice already seems to ring through my mouth, and it takes all my energy to not get lost in the fantasy, to focus on my feet moving towards the till. 

At the check-out aisle, amidst the bags of chips and chocolate bars, the tabloids smile, promising diets, other lives, dark secrets.

-/-/-

I arrive home at 5:00, still uncertain how to fill the rest of the day. I microwave the broccoli, then begin to read.

"So much about our universe remains unknown. As humans continue to search the galaxies, we discover realities more strange than we could imagine. Hypervelocity stars sweep through space at trillions of kilometers per hour. In the Eagle Nebula, The Hubble Telescope shows clouds five light years long, known as the Pillars of Creation, in which new stars are constantly being born. Some at NASA speculate that these pillars collapsed 6000 years ago, in the wake of an exploding star, yet we are far enough away that their light still reaches us."

I turn the pages of the book. Snow taps at the glass of my window, filling in the streets below. 

Eighty-nine pages in, there's a knock at the door. Did Hatori figure out I skipped school? I've never seen him angry, but what if he's disappointed? Or worried? 

But he has work. And he lives in another town. Of course it won't be him. 

Probably a salesperson. 

But when I open the door, it's Tohru. Chella stands at her side, looking oddly serious and professional for a dog. 

She smiles at me (Tohru, not the dog). "Hi, um, Jazzy gave me your address, and I would have called before coming, but you didn't have a phone, and, um, I wanted to see you again... Is that okay?"

My mouth dry, I nod, "Fine – I mean, of course it's okay. It's good to see you too."

Her shoulders relax. "I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do – I didn't want to invade your privacy. But I know you were sick on Friday, and I wanted to make sure you were okay." 

Warmth spreads through my chest, its intensity almost uncomfortable. "Thanks," I say quietly. I try to make my voice stronger. "It's kind of you to care."

"Of course I care. We're friends." 

My breath catches. She falters. 

"I mean," she says, "well, actually... that's another reason I came here. I wanted to talk about... what we are." 

All the blood in my face seems to have frozen. "What do you want us to be?"

She tilts her head down towards Chella, then back towards me. "I like you. And I don't really know you that well, yet, but... I'd like to get to know you better, if you'd like that, too."

The ice in my face melts into warmth. "I'd like that."

She smiles, lets out a small laugh. "Okay. That's good, 'cause, me too." 

I smile. "Do you want to come in for a bit?"

"That would be great. Thank you. Oh!" She reaches into her backpack, pulls out a tin patterned with animals. "This is for you. Since you just moved here, you know, as a housewarming gift."

I open the tin and the smell of sweetness and baking wafts out. Inside are piled rows of cookies, adorned with sprinkles and chocolates and jams. "Thanks," I say, too quietly. She looks concerned, so I add, "They look delicious."

I pick one up so to demonstrate. I bite in, and the taste of cream and sugar floods my mouth. I swirl the tartness of apricot jam around my tongue. 

I swallow. "It's really good," I say truthfully. She looks relieved. 

We walk over to the living room, and for the first time I wish I had something more than folding chairs. I steer her away from my room and its view of dirty clothes on the floor. I'm grateful today was the morning I finally decided to take a shower.

We sit down and I set the tin in front of us, offer her a cookie too. She takes one, shaped like a snowflake. 

"These are great," I say. "You didn't have to do this, though."

"It's no trouble, I like cooking." She scratches Chella behind her ears. "It's comforting. I always did the cooking growing up, so it makes me feel like I'm back home again."

"That sounds like a good feeling," I say, though I can't imagine ever wanting to go back to my old home. "Did you used to live somewhere else?"

"Not another city or anything," she says. She takes a bite of cookie, swallows. "I grew up with my mom, and cooking wasn't really her thing, so I liked to help with it. I moved in with my grandpa when she passed away."

"I'm sorry," I say. 

"It's okay," she says. We sit in silence while I think frantically of a change of topic. But she speaks first. "Well, okay's the wrong word. But I love my grandpa, and I have a good life with him. It's just hard sometimes, not to miss the way things were."

"Yeah," I say. I look at our socked feet against the floor. Hers white, mine black. "My dad died when I was eight and I miss him all the time."

"He must have been a great person."

"He was." It comes out almost defensive. "I loved him a lot. I still do."

She touches my arm. "I know," she says softly. 

I inhale, let it out through my nose. The way Hatori taught me. "Sorry," I say, my nerves jangling. "It's probably the same for you."

"Maybe," she says. "It might be different for everyone." She lets her arms fall from mine, to her side. "There are some things that are hard to put into words. Like there are no words big enough."

"Yeah," I say. I look down at the cookie in my hand. For the first time, I see it's shaped like a star. 

"Do you want to hear something I read in a book?" I hear my voice say. 

She smiles. "Okay."

I pick up the astronomy book, and read. "'Whenever we pick up a telescope, we face the possibility of encountering a star that was not there the day before. On a clear night, away from light pollution, the naked eye can perceive stars thirty quadrillion kilometers away. This is not even a fraction of the stars in the Milky Way, yet alone the universe. The possibilities for discovery, and the possibilities for change in our ever-changing universe, remain open, nearly endless. We still are not certain how gravity originated, or how rocky planets take shape. Sometimes we may feel overwhelmed by these vast uncertainties, still unable to know whether there are others beings like us in the enormity of the world we live in. Yet, the opportunity to explore this world is the greatest gift imaginable.'"

She closes her eyes as I speak. Maybe she's bored, falling asleep. But I need to say it.

When I finish the passage, she opens her eyes. They smile too, behind her glasses, deep brown and shot with gold. The small window pours a fan of light across her face. 

"That was beautiful," she says.

"I'm glad you like it." I laugh. "I'm always afraid, sharing things like that."

"What do you mean?" The smile-crinkles in the corners of her eyes shift into concern. 

"Just... things I care about. Things that feel like they're mine." 

"I think I know what you mean." 

"You do?" I'm not sure I know what I mean. I feel stupid, vulnerable, saying these thoughts out loud. 

"Mhm. Is it like, when you hear a song, and it feels like it's a part of you? Like someone has taken the things you didn't know how to say, and said them – they captured that feeling and carried it to the surface. And the feelings that you thought made you alone... they're actually connecting you to others." She laughs embarrassedly. "Sorry, I talk too much. But... is it like that at all?"

"Yes," I say. "It's exactly like that. I've just never heard anyone say it before."

I let my hand fall next to hers. Slowly, I reach towards her. Weave our fingers together. 

She squeezes my hand and smiles. 

-/-/-

We spend the rest of the evening drinking peach tea and listening to music on Tohru's phone. She tells me about the islands she visited, off the coast of British Columbia, how when her mom's cancer went into remission she had homeschooled Tohru for ninth grade so they could travel together. 

We watch a movie on Tohru's laptop, realize it's only in Japanese, and make up the plot ourselves since we can't understand it. A samurai's fiancé turns into a butterfly (for reasons we never quite figure out). He wanders through a forest filled with spirits searching for a spell to turn her back into a human. He rescues a forest god from a zoo, and the spirit returns the favour by turning the samurai into a butterfly as well. He and his wife fly away together to explore the world, white wings sinking into the sky above the sea.

We hold hands all the way through. She leans her head on my shoulder, and I lean my head on hers. Her hair smells of lavender. Outside, the sky shifts from grey to lilac.

After the movie, Tohru speaks in a murmur. "It's late."

"Do you want your coat?"

"Yes please. I'll see you at school tomorrow?"

"Definitely."

-/-/-

The next morning, I wake up early, limbs sticky with sweat, heart loud in my ears. I shower, look down at my body, shut my eyes as I run soap over my skin.

How do I expect this to work? Do I expect her just not to notice my body? Not care? Do I really think I can be enough for her, whatever I am? I breathe too quickly, choke on a mouthful of water. Sitting down on the floor of the shower, I draw my knees to my chest and hold myself, centered in the water tumbling down. 

Somehow, yesterday, none of this seemed important. She was Tohru. I was me. We were two people who liked each other, and that felt like enough. It should be enough. 

But in my dreams, I remembered. The words I'd been called growing up, words Nikki had been called for being with me. Words that make listeners flinch, that stick like oil on my tongue after I've said them, that are treated as more obscene that any swear I can think of. And worst of all is that I know it's not the words that bother anyone, it's the ideas behind them. 

Nikki thought she would lose her family because of me. 

I rock back and forth, my head spinning. It will be okay, I think uselessly, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. _She really does care about you._

_That's not enough,_ I tell myself. 

_What else is there?_

I rise to my feet. With shaking hands, I wash my hair.


	9. IX: Soft Revolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Tohru's past, as well as how Hatori and Kana met and where they are now. Rin and Kagura have an argument. Akito is struggling, and Tohru tries to help them open up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a song by Stars.

**Tohru**

As I lay in bed after returning from Akito’s house, I try to slow my thoughts down enough to sleep. It's hard when I can't stop thinking about tomorrow. I want to hear her voice light up with music again, like when she read the passage about astronomy. It's beautiful, hearing someone talk about something they love. I think of the sound of her as my heartbeat hums in my ears.

_I haven't felt this way about anyone since S._ My chest twinges as I think that name.

_This will be different. Akito is different._

-/-/-

When I was fourteen, on some unnamed island, I felt the earth shake beneath my feet.

I was walking barefoot over sand and rock, mossy-soft plants soaked in white light. The waves sparked and sparkled as they drenched the land in mineral-scented wind, cool against the heat of my sunburn.

The year I was fourteen, I could always feel the ocean on me. Salt collected in my hair and the ocean clung to the texture of my skin. Between growth spurts and the strangeness of the sea, I felt like I'd been born into a new body. Months passed, studying and swimming and laughing with my mom. I liked my new self and our new life.

At home I had been quiet, startled at the sound of my own voice, heart fluttering whenever someone talked to me at school (though that wasn't very often). I studied hard, but was never a stand-out student. I stared into textbooks, taking nothing in, reading the same line over and over. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop worrying about my mom. Every night I was afraid to go to bed, knowing I might wake up to a morning where she was gone. 

But on these islands and our rented boat, I wasn't afraid – not like I had been. I knew my mom might get sick again, but for now, she was better. In remission. We were celebrating. Even if I still feared the future, I wasn't afraid of the present. 

We had each other. We had everything we needed.

That day, Mom had gone to pick up groceries and I had gone out for a walk along the shoreline. I picked up smooth stones, pieces of driftwood, ran my index finger along their pathways. I was doing nothing in particular, just existing, and for a moment that felt like enough.

I was holding a stone when the earthquake started. The land thundered. Waves broke into a confusion of splashes. Something fell with an earthy thud. And then it was over.

It was small, as far as earthquakes go. But it was strange to be reminded that such things happened. That the world I lived in was so much bigger than myself, than anything I could fully understand or control. Yet I was a part of it.

When my mom came back from her appointment, I told her about the quake. She asked if I was okay, and I told her yes. She hadn't felt the tremors. The next day, the harbour paper made no mention of it. But I know it happened. 

-/-/-

The next time I had that feeling was in October the next year. My mom wasn't well enough to travel anymore, and our insurance money had mostly run out. She worked at the grocery store again, and I was starting high school. 

That morning, I sat on a plasticized seat of a bus, one of my arms resting on the windowsill, metal icy through my sleeve. An old, smoky scent hung in the air, along with the smells of mud and shoes and autumn decay.

Every ten minutes or so, the vehicle shuddered to a stop and the doors slid open. Footsteps as someone got on, walked past with a shadow and a rustling displacement of air. The doors creaking shut.

The engine rumbled like a woken-up animal. The driver cursed under his breath. Someone rapped on the glass; the sound had the blunted, echo-y sense of coming from outside.

The doors opened again. "I need to get on." The voice was a low, androgynous monotone.

The driver's voice was much deeper, like it came from a tunnel. "This bus is for vision-disabled students."

"I'm a student."

"Vision-disabled students."

"Yeah. I'm that, too."

"Can I see some proof?"

"How the hell am I supposed to prove that?"

I shouldn't have been listening. I didn't mean to. But they were talking loudly. The formerly monotone voice had risen in anger; it sounded like a girl, probably a teenager. I turned my head away, feeling like I should give her her privacy. I exhaled on the window's whorls of frost, traced shapes in the fog with my finger. Circles. Squares. The bus driver said, "Can you take off your sunglasses?"

"That's completely invasive."

"I can't let you on without some proof." He raised his voice, addressed the bus: "Does anyone know this lady?"

"I do," I spoke up.

"You do," he said flatly. I felt his attention, prickling my face. 

"Yes," I said again. I felt the wrongness of lying, but I also knew that if I didn't help her, the wrongness would be worse. 

He waited several seconds, then said, "Okay." 

The girl's footsteps ascended the stairs and she took a seat beside me. She smelled of smoke, and cumin, and cloves. Cigarette smoke usually made me feel sick, but combined with the other scents, it wasn't so bad. It lingered in her clothes, all of which were outer-space black. Curly hair circled her head like a storm cloud or a black halo. 

For some reason I found it hard to look at her, and yet I was happy that she'd sat beside me. I wanted to say something to her but I didn't know what. It was like I wanted to compliment her for existing. 

When the bus pulled up in front of Ernest Kaibara High School, she stood up too and my breath caught in my throat. We stepped out together onto the pavement. With a thud and a screech the bus spun away, spilling warm bursts of carbon monoxide. The cold air burned in the back of my nose and throat as I breathed it in.

It was the time and type of day when cold needles at all exposed skin until it goes numb and feels almost warm again. We walked, and I felt packed snow against the soles of my boots. I looked down and saw the girl had red shoes or shoelaces, or red leaves at her feet.

"Thanks," said the girl.

"I'm sorry the driver was so mean to you," I said. "That was really unfair and disrespectful.”

She unfolded a cane from her bag, clicked it back together. Leaves scratched across the ice and pavement as they blew by. 

"I get it all the time," she said. "It's like... when you have a disability, people expect you to be grateful for any space you take up. If you act like you’re worth the same anyone else is, it doesn’t fit their idea of how the world works, so they feel threatened. And then there's the matter of the rainbow patch."

I noticed for the first time the patch of colour, vivid against the black, sewn on the side of her hoodie that had been facing away from me on the bus. "Oh," I said. "It's nice."

"Thanks! My brother sewed it on for me."

"Is your brother gay? Or... bisexual?" I said, then wished I could swallow the words. It wasn't the kind of thing you were supposed to ask. But I'd never been in this situation before, so I didn't know what to say.

She laughed, thankfully. "No. Me. And gay."

"Oh. Well, that's good."

She laughed again. It wasn't a mean laugh. "It's good?"

I stumbled over a reply, my face burning. "I don't know, that came out weird, I just meant... it's good that you're open about yourself. That you're proud of who you are."

I'd never met a gay person before – I mean, I must have, but this was the first time anyone had told me. I'd only heard those words as punchlines, thrown across a television screen or a classroom, a joke, an insult. Never as something a person could just… be. 

She thought for a moment. "I don't know if I'm proud, exactly," she said. "I mean, I wish I was. It's kind of scary, everyone knowing. But... when I wasn’t open about my life, it felt like I was losing myself. Like I was dissolving." She laughed again, though I didn't understand what was funny. "Now I don’t have to worry who I talk about my life with, ‘cause everyone knows. If they’re gonna reject me, at least they’ll do it efficiently.”

I was saddened by how she said that so matter-of-factly. 

She added, “Anyway, it's like I said – I don't know how to keep my mouth shut."

"You shouldn't have to," I said. "You should be able to be yourself, and if anyone bothers you for it, they're the ones who are wrong. I think who you are is really cool. You shouldn’t have to hide anything.”

"Thanks," she said, suddenly quiet. A few moments later, at her usual volume, she added, "Well, you don't really know me yet. But I think you're pretty cool too."

"Thanks!" 

“I’m S, by the way.”

“I’m Tohru. It’s nice to meet you!”

"So you go to E.K. too?"

"Yes, it's my first year here." 

"Welcome to the club. I'm in grade 12."

"Do you like it here?"

"It's okay. Close to my house – I usually walk."

"I'm glad we go to the same school," I said. “I don’t really know anyone here yet.”

"Well, now you know me," she said. I heard the smile in her voice and had a feeling like the air between us was humming.

"Maybe we'll get to know each other better," I said.

"Yeah," she said. "That would be rad." 

The bell rang and she said, “I usually hang out in the music room. Come by some time if you want. Maybe I could play you a song.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

As I sat in class, I still felt that humming inside me. Like I'd drank a lot of coffee, except I didn't drink coffee. Or like I had thought of something important to say, but when I reached for the words, I didn't know what they were.

In math, pluses and minuses and cosines and tangents and hypotenuses washed into background noise. I wrote in my notebook – abstract thoughts, unedited poetry, descriptions of characters, streams of consciousness. Trying to find the right words. I didn't know what I was doing; but inside me, something was unfolding, expanding, and I had to write it. Catch the flurry of thoughts and emotions before they slipped past, because suddenly, they seemed to matter. 

In history class, revolutions braided their shadows into the river of words passing through me. I didn't know what I was writing, but I knew I had to write it.

I hadn't written in years, thought I'd outgrown it. But now the scenes played clearly in my mind, stories I'd long abandoned springing back to life. I felt like I'd come home to a place I hadn't known I'd left. I could hear the dialogue. 

I couldn't keep it in.

**Kagura**

As Rin and I stand outside the room, waiting for English class to start, I decide to tell her about my night. She listens as I talk, her mouth unmoving. When I finish, she says, "Why the hell did you do that?" Her hands clench at her sides, her eyes hard as stones.

My mouth goes dry. "I... I thought you'd be proud of me. I thought it was brave." _I thought it was something you would do._

"You don't have to act stupid to be brave."

"I'm not stupid. And I told you how much I hate that word." Heat prickles in my eyes, and I don’t know which one of us I’m angry at. 

But suddenly, she seems to deflate. She unballs her fists, hands shaking, and looks down at the floor. "I know. I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. I don’t think you’re stupid." She exhales. Pushes her dark bangs out of her face, then looks back at me. The stones of her eyes have turned to water. "You shouldn't go alone at night to visit people you've never met before. You could've really gotten hurt."

Her voice shakes at the end of the sentence. I've never seen her like this before. It's like I've walked in on her completely defenceless. 

"I'm sorry," I say. "I won't do it again."

"You don't have to apologize. It's just... I was worried." She looks me in the eye, as though daring me to argue, some of the old steel back in her voice. "I don't control your life. But you're my friend. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

I say, "I'm glad we're still friends." 

I open my arms to her. 

"I'm not really the hugging type – you know, screw it, fine." She embraces me back. A spike-haired boy walks past, giving our heartfelt moment a strange look. "The hell you looking at!" she says, and he shuffles away. I feel her laugh, silently, and then I'm laughing too.

As we disentangle, Rin mumbles, "It's your life and you can do what you want. Just... I'd feel better if you didn't go alone next time. If you want company, you can always text me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Or someone else if you'd rather." She looks away. "I know you're good at martial arts and everything, but… I just like knowing my friends are safe."

"No, I'd like that too," I say. "Thank you." 

As the teacher unlocks the door, we walk into the room together.

**Hatori**

"Good evening, sir. Are you here to see Kana Nakamura again?"

"Yes."

"Up that hall and to your left, room 661. I'll sign you in."

"Thank you."

My footsteps echo through the hospital quiet. In her room, I find Kana in bed, a book in her lap as she sits amidst a sea of papery sheets. She looks up at me and smiles. "Hey."

"How are you doing?" I sit down on the folding chair beside her bed. 

"I'm okay. I walked five meters today."

"Well done. That's a major improvement."

"Thanks," she says. She looks down at the cover of the book, embroidered with daisies. Her smile falters. "Sometimes it doesn't feel like it." 

"You're doing well. You've worked hard to get this far." I want to reach out, brush the hair from her face the way I used to. But I know if I touched her now, she would flinch. I say, "You're a strong person."

"That's kind of you. I hope you're right." 

"What are you reading today?" 

"It's an old diary. Four years ago."

"Is it helping?"

"I still don't remember any of it." She traces a finger along the edges of the pages. The book is frail, paper softened into feathers by rereadings. "It's in my handwriting. The words are things I would say. But when I reach for a memory, it's like my fingers close around empty space."

"The doctors said your memories might come back."

"But what if they don't?"

"You can make new memories." I stop myself from saying, _we can._

"That's true, but... I won't be the same person."

"You're still Kana."

“I don’t know who that is.”

She looks out the window, the sunset laced with autumn frost. Then she looks at me.

"Tell me about who I was."

-/-/-

Kana and I met when we were seventeen. We worked together at the mental health outpatient centre, where I answered phones and did the filing. We saw each other often, but didn't have much chance to talk. She worked with the art therapy group across the hall, while I worked in the office. But she always smiled when she passed by, and I smiled back.

Her eyes were dark and shone like ponds at night. She laughed easily, a beautiful, ringing sound. In the next room, I caught glimpses of her working, occasional bits of conversation that drifted through the walls. Sometimes she helped with technical aspects of art, but mostly she provided encouragement, was available if anyone wanted to talk. 

I was amazed how easily people opened up to her; she could always tell when someone was having a bad day, knew when to offer a hug or start a conversation. But she respected boundaries, too, never pushed too hard. When members of the group came in shaking, or silent, or tearful, or angry, she was friendly and calm, open to talk but never forcing anyone. Often, she could make people smile, even on their worst days.

My days were quite homogenous. I worked hard on my studies, had few other hobbies. I researched new developments in science and medicine when I wasn't helping my family with errands or visiting Akito or Ren.

I enjoyed talking to Akito. She was intelligent, perceptive, interesting. She was quiet to the point of being secretive, but sometimes she opened up, forgetting to feign nonchalance as she talked about music or science or art. I tried to give her everything she needed, everything Ren didn't – attention, food, safety, school clothes. Kindness. When I saw her walk, bundled in too many jackets, hunched into herself as though the world was crushing her, I couldn't stand by and do nothing. 

I didn't enjoy spending time with Ren, but I felt I had to. I had never in person seen Ren violent, but there was something... wrong. The way Akito seemed afraid to talk about anything that went on in that house. Ren’s refusal to tell me anything of her and Akito's lives. 

She spoke dismissively of Akito – children cause so much drama, cost so much money, don't know how to behave. She said these things like jokes, but there was cruelty in her voice. I'd heard many parents frazzled, frustrated, but this was different. It was true antipathy. It clung to her, every time I saw her, a fog that did not lift. 

But I visited her, because she had no one else. 

She always spoke to me as an adult, though I was still a teenager. She didn't seem to like me – or anyone – yet she was oddly respectful. She glared at me, but met my eye, answered my questions, let me into her home. Every week I went to make sure she and Akito were alright. 

My mother and father were somewhat baffled by these visits, but allowed them. My parents and I got along, but could rarely think of anything to say to one another. We ate dinner together, cutlery clinking in the silence. 

Likewise at school: I had no conflict with my classmates, but I wasn't close to them either. I did well in classes. School and work kept me busy enough that I didn't have time to worry whether I was happy. My life was orderly. That seemed like enough. 

As senior year went by, I attended meetings about university programs, learned the specifics of what schools looked for in pre-med applicants. One day, as I was taking out my notebook in a lecture hall, waiting for the talk to begin, someone tapped my shoulder. 

I looked up to see Kana. She smiled. "Is it okay if I sit here?" She gestured at the empty seat next to me. 

"Of course," I said. 

"Thanks." She unzipped her backpack, took out a notebook. On the cover was a laminated sprig of pressed jasmine. 

"Did you make that?" I asked. 

"Yes. A branch broke in my backyard, and I wanted to save something. Spring's my favourite season, so I'm trying to hold on to it."

"It's beautiful," I said.

"Thanks, I'm glad you like it." She opened to a new page, wrote down the date, then looked up at me. "So, why do you want to be a doctor?"

I opened my mouth to answer, then realized I didn’t know. But how could that be? I'd been researching pre-med programs for the past three years. Even so, I couldn't pinpoint a moment when I'd decided on this path. Somehow it had seemed inevitable. 

"I don't know," I said, foolishly. Truthfully. "It feels like what I'm supposed to do."

She nodded. "That's a good sign." 

"How about you?"

She thought for a moment. "Well... I guess it sounds cliché, but I want to help people. I've had a pretty good life, and if I can make things a bit better for others... I think that's the right thing to do."

"I think so too," I said. 

The lecture began. Afterwards, as we rose from our seats and headed towards the door, she walked beside me. "It's going to be hard," she said. "But I think we can do it."

"You have a good chance," I said. "I always see you volunteering – that will look good on an application."

"Thanks – hey, you should come with us sometime, if you're interested. They're always looking for volunteers to help out with the day trips on weekends. "

"What would I do?"

"Well, sometimes we help with cooking, but mostly we talk to people, make sure they're doing okay, let them know we care." She took one of the complimentary cupcakes, offered me one too. We bit into the blue frosting. 

"You have some, um." I gestured to the side of my lip, to show where the frosting clung to her. 

She looked at me and laughed. "So do you. Same place."

I laughed. For some reason, said, "Maybe it's a sign. Good luck, somehow."

"True blue medical students." She grinned, dabbing the blue off her face with a napkin. "But anyway, if you do want to volunteer, just be yourself. That's enough."

-/-/-

I took her up on her suggestion. That weekend, I signed up for the next hiking trip in Banff. "I hoped you'd make it," said Kana, before introducing me to the members and other volunteers. We walked through the woods, dappled gold light falling between the autumn canopy. An elderly woman named the different species of birds we passed, while a young man imitated their calls. Then the conversation shifted to favourite movies, upcoming concerts. I was surprised how easy it was to talk to people, realized how long it had been since I'd done this – just talk. Not as a student trying to take notes, or a caregiver trying to protect someone, but just a person. Trying to understand.

In the coming months, I went with the group on hikes to the mountains, trips to plays, the movie theater, the swimming pool. I felt almost guilty, taking the time away from studying, yet it was the kind of guilt that came with a thrill, a sense of becoming the person I wanted to be. Engaging with people directly, rather than sitting alone in my room, memorizing biomolecular structures. Though I enjoyed my studies, enjoyed learning the mechanics and mathematics of how the world fit together, this seemed more important right now. Making food for people who couldn't make their own. Starting conversations with people who wanted to talk, but didn't know how to start. It seemed right, and besides, it was... fun. 

Outside of volunteering, Kana and I spent more and more time together as well. We went to movies and the library, did our Christmas shopping together, studied together in cafes and in our homes. 

One day we were sitting in her living room, under a blanket, sheltered from the winter. There was a movie on the tv, but I was focused on her instead. She leaned her head on my shoulder and I brushed the hair back from her face. 

I leaned in and kissed her, and she kissed me back. When we broke apart, she opened her eyes, stars in their dark water, and smiled. "I'd been hoping that would happen.”

**Akito**

At lunch hour, I look for Tohru in the cafeteria, find her in the usual place. Unfortunately, Kyo is there too. I hover for a moment, deciding whether to sit. 

"Akito?" says Tohru.

"Yes."

She stands and pulls me into a hug. I sit down beside her and she takes my hand, beams.

"I'm glad you're back," she says.

"Thanks. Me too."

I glance at Kyo, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. At least it's better than a glare. Maybe he'll let me live. 

"How was the rest of your night?" says Tohru.

"It was okay."

"Only okay?" 

"It was good," I say. "I missed you, that's all. How was your night?"

"Good, but I missed you too," she says. 

Kyo focuses very hard on his protein shake. 

Tohru takes a tupperware container of rice balls out of her backpack, offers them to Kyo and I. "I had a big breakfast," I lie. My stomach turns painful flips.

As Kyo takes one, Tohru says, "I was telling Kyo about what you said, about the stars. I didn't remember all the details, though; you could probably explain better than I can."

Kyo looks up at me from over his riceball. I reach into my bag, hand him the book, open it to the page I've bookmarked. "This part," I say, pointing at the paragraph. 

He reads silently, then hands it back. "Yeah, it's kind of interesting. I guess." 

I take my book back, relieved. Though he makes a big show of being unimpressed, I know this is as close to his approval as I'm going to get. 

(And though I know how satisfying it would be to argue with him, to be consumed by the white heat of rage and let it spill from my mouth, I can't do that. Not in front of Tohru.)

Across the room, Jazzy, Rin, Yuki, Haru, Kureno, Britt, and Momiji engage in a lively conversation. I can’t make out the words, but Jazzy and Momiji are gesticulating wildly, making the others laugh.

Tohru touches my shoulder. "I know it's not my place, but... I know they care about you. They'd be glad to know you're ok."

“Maybe later,” I mumble. 

I split my lunch, an orange, into segments. One at a time I let them break over my teeth, try to chew and swallow them slowly. Against my hunger, I try to make them last. 

-/-/-

"Welcome back." At work, Kisa's voice is so small I almost don't hear it. 

"Thanks," I say. "Are you okay?" Her eyes are rimmed in red. Underneath, dark moons make her look much older than a junior high student.

"Y-yeah. Just stress." Her voice fades, and she resumes scooping strawberry syrup into a drink. 

I refill the jelly containers. After hesitating, I say, "If there's anything I can do, let me know."

She smiles weakly. "Thanks." 

As I mix drinks, she takes orders, silently hands the customers their change. She seems like a different person, all the vibrancy faded from when I first met her. Her bangs cover her eyes and she doesn't look up.

I scoop lychee, avocado, mango, resist the urge to taste it. Make myself think of how it smells in the trash, saccharine, clashing with the other scents. Try to turn it into something disgusting. Convince myself I am superior to hunger, superior to desire or need.

But I want it anyway. Feel disgusted with myself for wanting trash. Repulsed by the gap between who I am and who I want to be.

I want to call Tohru. Apologize for how quiet I was today, how exhausted. With Kyo there, I couldn't think of how to speak, wanting to be close to her without being judged by him. After lunch, as he walked in the opposite direction, I walked Tohru to her class.

"It was good to see you again," she said. "I hope you feel better soon."

I hadn’t realized I’d let on how bad I was feeling. "Thanks," I said. "I appreciate that. Sorry for bringing the mood down."

She looked into my eyes. "You don't have to be sorry. You don't have to be happy all the time. But if there's anything you want to talk about, or anything I can help you with – please, let me know, okay?"

"I will," I said, taken aback by her determination. “Thanks. You… really are kind.”

“So are you,” she said. “You’re a good person. I care about you.”

“I care about you too. A lot. Do you… want to hang out on the weekend? We could watch the other movies in that series.”

“Tohru!” called a voice from inside the classroom. “We’re starting class!”

“I’d love to,” she said. She kissed me on the cheek before dashing into the classroom.

I sat through the rest the school day in a strange swirl of exhaustion, excitement, and relief. 

"Rin!" Kisa's voice rises almost to its old enthusiasm. I look over to the counter, see Rin and Haru hand in hand, matching in their black clothes and silver jewelry. Rin says, "Hey," and Haru raises a hand in greeting. 

"How's school going?" Rin asks Kisa. 

"Oh... I'll tell you later."

I say, "You know each other?"

"Yeah," says Rin. "Kisa's awesome."

"How did you meet?" I say. Rin doesn’t seem like the type to spend time with junior high students. 

"Shared a cell in juvie."

Kisa's eyes widen, and Rin quickly says, "That was a joke. We ride the same bus. I said hi one day."

Something hangs in the air, a sense that there's more to be said. But Haru breaks the silence, "It's cool to see you again. You doing okay?"

"Yes," I say. "Much better." That must be the third time someone has asked that today. Yet rather than annoying, it’s strangely satisfying. Like I matter to people. 

Rin says, "Good to hear." She takes a sip as I hand her her almond tea. "We missed you at lunch today. Come join us again sometime?"

_I didn't ruin everything?_

"Maybe tomorrow," I say. 

"You can bring Tohru, too," she says. "Kyo and Yuki don't get along – actually, that could be interesting. Bring him as well."

Haru says, "We can start a fight club."

"We need some way to relieve the stress of high school," says Rin. 

"I'll let them know," I say, handing Haru his bizarre graham cracker/chocolate/lychee milkshake.

"Cool," he says. He and Rin wave goodbye, walk off, holding hands, into the white noise of the mall. I wipe down the counter, polishing until it shines.

That night, I walk home through long blue shadows, streetlight bouncing orange off apartment complex windows, my hands in my pockets against the cold. It's snowed again; my footsteps sink as I move. 

I stomp the ice crystals off in the doorway to my building, then climb the stairs towards my room. As I approach, I see something white dangling from the doorknob. Confused, I untie the long, white streams of fabric. My curtains. Underneath stand my blue rainboots, washed clean. 

Jazzy was here.


	10. X: This is Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akito reunites with their group of friends. Featuring a leek battle. Hatori tells Kana he loves her. Akito opens up to Jazzy, then makes an important phone call.
> 
> Chapter title comes from a song by Tegan and Sara. Some of the bands named in this chapter are real, while others are not.

**Akito**

As I walk towards the spot where Tohru, myself, and Kyo (unfortunately) eat lunch, I pass Jazzy in the hall. He acknowledges me with a nod, a quick lift of his hand. I open my mouth to say something. Close it. Then open it again. Turn to face him.

"Thanks for returning my things," I say.

"No problem." He examines his silver-polished nails, then meets my eyes. "I wouldn't take your stuff and not give it back. You're my friend."

“You’d do that to someone who wasn’t your friend?”

He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Probably, yeah. So, um… you’re okay?”

"Yeah. Fine." I fidget in the pockets of my hoodie. "Is everyone still mad at me?"

"No. No one was mad. Just worried."

"There’s nothing to worry about." My fingers ache from the repetitive, cramped motions, but I can't keep them still. "So only Kureno was upset?"  
"He wasn't mad, he was worried. Can I text him you're okay? He's stuck at home with the flu."

“Go ahead,” I say. The muscles of my stomach unclench. No chance of running into him. Of being reminded.

_The room full of lights, full of darkness, fading out into blood on the living room carpet, the smell of vomit —_

I shake myself back to the present. Jazzy brushes blue-blond hair from his eyes, looks up at me and says, "Hey, uh, no pressure, but if you want to talk about anything... I'd listen, you know?"

"Thank you. But it's fine. It was more embarrassing than anything." I try to laugh but it catches in my throat as another cold wave of panic crashes over me.

_Falling black hair, the feeling of choking, sirens wailing down the street..._

"...about going to her place — hey. You're sure you're alright?"

My vision refocuses and I look back at Jazzy, his eyes bright with worry. How much time has passed?

"Um, kind of shaken, I guess." I laugh. "So how are things with Darren?"

"Oh, we broke up. It's okay though, I like someone new. Come on, let's go sit down."

"I should go meet Tohru — oh —"

"Akito, hi!" She smiles up from their table, seated next to Rin. I sit down beside her and she takes my hand. I inhale, exhale. She's here. I'm safe.

Everything is fine.

Around us, Haru slurps noodles from a bowl of ramen while Momiji tells him a story. Yuki and Kyo sit at opposite sides of the table, locked in a glare.

“What’s up with them?” I say.

“Kyo and Yuki don’t get along…” says Tohru, peeling a banana, her brow furrowed.

Rin says, "Makes things interesting."

A piece of broccoli flies across the table. "See how you like it!" shouts Kyo at a nonreactive Yuki.

“I have no issue with vegetables,” says Yuki, picking the broccoli fragment off his lap and placing it on the table between them, “as I am not a child.”

“Says the guy who put leeks in my lunch box!”

"It was a peace offering."

"OH LIKE HELL IT WAS —" Kyo breathes in, then sits down, crosses his arms smugly. "Whatever. I'm gonna be the bigger man here."

"Impressive," says Yuki.

Kyo jolts to his feet. "OH COME ON, WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN? IS THAT SARCASM?"

Rin, as though nothing is going on, says, "So, are you in for New Years?"

"What's on New Years?" I say.

Tohru smiles, apparently forgetting all about the yelling and the torrent of flying vegetables. "Rin and I were talking, and we thought it would be fun to have a party at my house and invite all our friends. Then you could get to know some of my friends better, and I could get to know your friends better — that is, if you're interested too, of course."

"That... sounds good," I say.

"That wasn't very enthused," interjects Haru through a curtain of kimchi-scented steam.

"I'm just... surprised." I think back to Ritsu frantically exclaiming “oh my heavens!” in the music shop. Meanwhile, Yuki and Kyo continue to pelt each other with vegetable debris. "That's a lot of eccentricity to fit in one house."

"I'm pretty used to eccentricity," says Tohru.

"OH FOR THE LOVE OF — IN MY BACKPACK TOO? WHERE ARE YOU EVEN GETTING ALL THESE LEEKS FROM?"

Momiji chimes in, “Kyo, Kyo! Yuki said you would like them as a surprise! Are you surprised?”

Kyo growls at Yuki, “Why are you bringing everyone into this, you stupid rat-head?”

“Is that really your best insult?”

"Kyo, Yuki, it's okay — you don't need to —" Tohru raises her hands in a placating gesture, but the two continue to bicker. Kyo grabs one of Haru's chopsticks and brandishes it at Yuki, who grabs the other and effortlessly parries. Haru stares into his soup, devoid of utensils.

"You're not worried?" I ask Tohru.

She sighs. "No, they're always like this." Then she smiles. "Honestly, I'd be more worried if they were getting along."

"I didn't even know they knew each other," I say.

Yuki says, "Yes, we've been in the same classes since elementary. He's always disliked me for no particular reason."

"Being a pretentious asshat is totally a reason," says Kyo, his words punctuated by ineffective chopstick stabs.

"That's perceptive of you to recognize you're an asshat."

"No, I meant you! You know I meant you!"

"Anyway," Yuki says to me.

"Stop ignoring me!" says Kyo.

Yuki continues, "We also compete in the same judo league. Every year we compete for the first and second place ranking."

"Yuki always wins," adds Haru.

"Nobody asked you!" Kyo glares. "Besides, not everyone has loaded politician families with personal trainers. Some of us have to live in the real world."

"I wasn't aware your parents were politicians," I say.

Yuki says, "Just my mom."

Rin says, "She's in the media all the time. He and his brother went to, like, crazy etiquette classes because it would cause a scandal to use the wrong fork. When we dyed his hair we thought she was gonna murder us."

"Oh, boo hoo, so he's too rich and his parents actually give a shit about his wellbeing," says Kyo.

"Okay, everybody!" shouts Jazzy, standing up on the table. Even Yuki and Kyo stop to look up. "For our New Years plans! Tohru has kindly volunteered her house —"

"Please get down before you step in my noodles," says Haru.

"Your wish is my command — whoa," Jazzy attempts to bow, causing the table to shake and water to slosh over the edge of Haru's soup bowl. He hops down and the ramen rattles precariously. Haru stares resignedly down at his meal, then grabs his chopsticks back and resumes eating.

"Anyway," says Jazzy. "Party."

"Yeah," says Rin, "that's the gist of it."

"I can't wait," says Tohru, squeezing my hand.

Maybe I've underestimated her. If she can keep smiling amidst this chaos, maybe I'm not destined to scare her away.

As Kyo and Yuki resume their swordfight, this time with a pair of leeks, I reassure myself that I'm far from the weirdest person in this school.

**Hatori**

We were walking on ice when I first realized how deeply I loved her. I'd known before; love grew in me like a starburst, so bright it burned. Yet this was the first time I put a word to it. I never knew I was capable of feeling so strongly.

We walked the frozen reservoir, laughing and slipping, helping each other stand. The ice shone bluish white, spiderwebbed with spring warmth but still strong enough to hold us. Everything sparkled. In the February sunlight, snow fell on snow with a crystalline chime, water droplets plinking all around.  
We ran in short bursts, then leapt, laughing as we slid. I felt like a child, though even as a child I had never been so carefree. Kana ran, laughing and effortless, sun flashing in her hair. I don’t remember what we were saying or if we were saying anything; but it was perfect, because she was her, and she was here, and we were together. We had made it. 

Our acceptance letters had arrived in the mail. In a few months, we would start the pre-med program at the University of Lethbridge and move into an apartment together. Our life would begin.

We ran. On the ice, everything was funny, and everything felt real, the universe vivid and friendly, the sky crayon blue. Whenever one of us managed to catch our breath, the other began laughing more than ever, and soon we'd both be caught up in it again. We stumbled over unexpected rough or smooth patches, cheered each other on, tried to do tricks and failed spectacularly.

She took off running, then slid the fastest either of us had gone yet — she glided past as though she were flying. With a shout of joy, then surprise, she toppled backwards, hung weightless in the air. As she fell to the ice, she continued to slide several meters, spinning in an awkward sitting position.

"Are you alright?" I called, running after her.

"Y-yeah," she said, looking around in confusion.

During the whole time, her expression had never changed: an odd look, too perplexed to panic even as she soared through the air. I went to help her up — I saw her shaking. But as I drew closer, I saw her smile and realized she was laughing. Then I was laughing too, so hard that crystals froze on my eyelashes. I reached to help her stand but our laughter shook us both and I fell too, beside her, on our backs, laughing until our voices faded into the trickle of spring.

We lay looking at the sky, at the trees’ open arms, listening to the melting. The birds calling each other home.

"It's becoming spring," she said.

“It’s beautiful.”

She turned onto her side, looked at me with eyes sparkling bright as the day.

I touched her cheek, felt its warmth through my glove. "I love you," I said.

She pressed something warm into my palm. "I found this here."

I held the object out in front of me: a small grey stone. I brought it close to my face and it became bigger than the sun.

She reached out to touch it. "Turn it this way," she said. "What does it look like to you?

"A heart."

"I thought so, too."

I moved my fingertips over it. "It's kind of lumpy."

"That just makes it more anatomically correct."

I smiled. I tried to give it back to her, but she pressed it to my palm. She put her hands on mine and closed my fingers around it. "It's yours now."

**Akito**

As I walk home, I count my steps as they crackle the air-pocketed ice. The wind smells of car exhaust, freezes jagged in my nostrils as I breathe it in. But I think of the calories I burn, walking to school each morning, home each afternoon. I keep walking. Shove my hands deep in my pockets, reach for the last traces of warmth.

"Hey." A familiar voice rumbles between the sounds of traffic. I turn to see a mop of blue-streaked, brilliant blond hair. Jazzy grins as he jogs to catch up. "Want some company?"

"I live kind of far," I say.

"I know. I'm in the same neighbourhood."

The same neighbourhood. So he's dirt poor, like me. (The Sohma secret back home — everyone putting so much effort into hiding our poverty, hiding That Woman's problems, though I'm sure the neighbours saw past it. We'd just gotten in the habit of lying.) He's also willing to walk fourty minutes in the cold, apparently to spend time with me.

Why?

"We can walk together if you want," I say. In my pocket, I run a thumb along my hipbone, wish it were sharper. Wish I had a perfect body or no body at all. I’m used to the emotional crash — every afternoon, as my blood sugar drops. How it becomes hard to mine my mind for words, to motivate my body to move.

I should try to talk to Jazzy. Try to be a person.

He speaks first. "So what kind of music do you like?"

My breath catches on the frozen air — what answer does he want? I decide to be honest, but when I look for what I really feel, I can't find it. "A lot of things," I mumble.

"Older or newer?"

"Older, I guess. I had an mp3 player a couple years ago, but it broke and I never got it replaced."

"Ah," he says. "Music's not really your thing?"

"No, it is.” My voice comes out defensive, and I correct myself. “I have a radio at my house. Some nights that's all I do; lie on my bed in the dark, listening. But it's like I go into this trance — I feel the sounds move through me, but I'm not really there. So I never catch the names." I fidget with my keys in my pocket. "If that makes any sense."

"No. It does." Snow crunches under our shoes. He says, "When you had your mp3 player, what did you listen to? Wait, lemme guess." He shuts his eyes in concentration, takes a deep breath, and pronounces, "Poisonfox."

I blink. "How did you know?"

He grins a pointy smile, blue eyes sharp with glitter. "Telepathy. Also, everyone loves Poisonfox. They're fucking brilliant. Let's see... Headache Glitch?"

"They're okay. The ideas are interesting, but the lyrics could be better executed."

"Shrewd Disguise?"

"When I'm really angry."

"Hey, you get it!" Jazzy laughs. "Feel like I'm always arguing with people who think they're a happy band."

"No, their songs are subtle, but when you listen to it — she wants to destroy something."

"Exactly! Like, when Viv sings 'I will get inside your head and I will make your heart explode.' So many people think those are love lyrics. How about Bjork?"

"Yes. Pluto."

"Oh man, Pluto makes me want to punch a hole through the universe. In a good way. Bloc Party?"

He goes on to list bands, with startling accuracy. At some point I realize he's diverged into a list of artists Nikki and I had listened to: queercore bands, riot grrrl groups. I'm nodding along to the list when I realize, and my blood goes cold.

Does he know more than he's let on?

"Heavens to Betsy?" he says.

I say, "Yes," but my enthusiasm is gone. We walk in silence for the rest of the block.

I don't know what I'm afraid of. He liked Darren — he's obviously not homophobic. But if I'm outing myself, I don't even know what I'm coming out as. Being perceived as just another guy — maybe it wasn't the full story. But it didn't feel like a lie.

We wait for the light to change. The red hand hovers, disembodied, slicing its gleam through the bleached air. It flashes to a glowing white man, featureless, and we cross.

There's something else on my mind, too. "Are you trying to make up for what happened at the party?" I ask.

"Kinda," he says quietly. "But also… I just like talking to you. You seem... I don't know. Real."

"I'm not that real."

"Well, we all have our personas. But... I don't know. I get the feeling that you're a decent person."

"That's a lot to project on someone."

"Yeah, I guess it is. But still. And we like the same music, so that's something."

I smile. The air aches against my teeth. "Yes," I say. "It's something."

As we walk towards the centre of the city, the sidewalks darken, slick with ice. Jazzy stumbles in his skater shoes, the lines of the soles worn away. I reach out to help him stand, and we walk the patch of ice arm in arm.

"Now your turn," he says, when we disentangle. "What do you think I listen to?"

We continue with the game, and I learn he likes metal, rap, hardcore punk. And Britney Spears. "She works hard," he says. "People think it's shallow, to make music that people enjoy. But she's good at what she does, even if she gets a lot of shit for it. I think that's badass."

When it's time for me to turn into my building, I don't want to leave. For most of fourty minutes, talking had felt almost easy. I'd even forgotten to be cold.  
"Hey," he says. "You said you have a radio — would it also play cds?"

"I'm pretty sure it has a disc drive."

"Sick, I can copy you the new Shrewd Disguise album sometime. It's intense, I think you'd like it. Actually —" he jabs his thumb at the air behind his shoulder — "my place is right over there. I can run in and get it if you want. Or you could come over."

I hesitate, then nod.

We cross the street to his building. Winter evening settles on downtown like dust, shadows growing long and lilac against the grey of snow and concrete. He punches a code in the doorway, and we ascend a narrow stairway up six floors, ceiling so low the stucco grazes my hair. He leads us towards an apartment and begins to turn his key in the door, but it opens before he can finish.

"Oh, hello." A woman in a sweater and a long skirt answers. Her dark brown eyes are unnervingly wide in her thin face, but she smiles, softening the look. "You're Akito, right? I’m Sarah, Jeremy’s sister."

It takes me a moment to figure our Jeremy is Jazzy. "Nice to meet you," I say.

Jazzy grins. As he stands beside her, I search for a family resemblance. They both have the same pale skin, although with her dark brown hair, the same as Jazzy's roots, it looks more extreme on her, like a health issue rather than a fashion statement. Shadows nest beneath her eyes; she looks happy, but like maybe she wasn't always happy. She stands with her shoulders turned inward, like she's grown used to making herself as small as possible.  
I recall Jazzy’s vague claims that his parents had kicked them out. That his dad wasn’t a good person.

How is this Jazzy’s sister? Her voice rain soft, her sweater the colour of faded leaves and skirt the colour of ash. And then there’s Jazzy, a visitor from a planet of neon and noise.

"Are you staying for dinner?" asks Sarah. "Ty's bringing Chicken on the Way."

"We live a glamorous life," says Jazzy.

"I should get home soon," I say. "Thank you, though."

"Maybe another time," says Jazzy. "Come on, I'll give you a tour of our kingdom."  
In the tiny apartment, the tour doesn't take long. We walk between mountains of magazines about music and technology, piles of folded clothing, wires and circuitboards, jewelry- and cosmetic-filled shoeboxes huddled together like hibernating animals.

"What does your sister do?" I say.

"Computer programming. Ty too — they romanced each other over Boolean theorems, and that's exactly as weird as it sounds. This is my room."  
He pushes past a paint-spattered door. Inside, black walls glitter with coloured lights and print-outs of bands. A computer pulses white glow over a clutter of sketchbooks and scribbles. Above the desk, a narrow window looks directly at a brick wall.

He switches on the lamp. He's covered it with swathes of fabric, causing slivers of rainbow to spill around the room.

Pulling up a music program on the computer, Jazzy sets it to burn a new cd. "Twelve minutes," he says. "Is that okay?"

"That's fine."

He lifts a pile of magazines off the chair beside him, gestures for me to sit down. "Sorry it's such a mess," he says. He flops down on a deflated bean-bag chair.

"I like it," I say. "It suits you."

He laughs. "Yeah, I'm a mess too."

"That's not what I meant. It reflects your interests." I've never put up posters, anywhere I've lived. Jealousy rises in my throat: that he has that solidity, that sense of self. I swallow it down like stomach acid, hot and corrosive.

"Oh!" says Jazzy, making me jump. "I just remembered — mind if I show you this song?"

"Go ahead."

He presses a button and the machine lights up. In a stream of clicks and keystrokes, programs dance across the screen. Then, instead of clicks, a clatter, tumble of drumbeat over drumbeat.

Another instrument joins in, slowly builds up — no, it's a voice, wordless vocalizing. Several voices, harmonizing, whispering, speaking words in a language I don't understand. The layers create a landscape of sound. I feel like, if I close my eyes, I'll be able to touch it, feel it. No — I already feel it.

"I thought you'd like this song," says Jazzy.

"I suppose I'm predictable."

"Hardly. But I play music for everyone, and it felt like it was about time I found someone who shared my taste in the weird stuff." From the way he says "weird", it seems to be synonymous with "good." Like it's an entirely different word than the one used to mock me in junior high, or by That Woman whenever I did something particularly un-girl-like.

"What's so weird about it?' I say.

"Listen."

I close my eyes. Three verses later, I say, "Are they the same person? The one humming, and whispering, and the singer?"

He raises his hand for a high-five and I accept.

"It's fascinating," I say, "that one voice can be so varied."

"Yeah," says Jazzy, "it's like... you know how the best music, you don't just understand what the other person is feeling, you feel it with them. And here, she's feeling so many things at once... that seems really human to me."

Jazzy pulls up a social networking sight, and shows me a picture of a person smiling in a forest. Their teal scarf matches teal lipstick, and their hair is long and dark on one side, shaved on the other. Dark brown eyes catch the shards of a sunset. "This is the person I like," says Jazzy. "Their name's Lyn. Tohru said they can come to the party, too — I can't wait for you to meet them."

"Them?"

"Yeah, Lyn's nonbinary."

"Oh," I say.

I know what nonbinary is. I may be from a small town, but we had internet too. When my aunt and uncle were at work, I'd spent countless hours Google-searching in an incognito window, trying to make sense of what I was. But the idea of being anything other than male or female seemed like a concept that only existed online. Like something people would list on their blog profiles, but no one would respect in real life. I couldn't imagine anyone brave enough to come out as something most people didn't even believe existed.

"How did you meet?" I say.

"Dramafest. They were in a play with the Tsuu T'ina youth group, so I stayed after to say hi." He flips through pictures — Lyn in a spike-covered jacket, Lyn riding a ferris wheel amidst a blur of colour, Lyn at a campfire with friends. He sighs. "Damn, they're so cool. Do you think I have a chance?"

I blink. "Of course. You're charismatic."

"Thanks. But charisma doesn't mean dateable."

"I thought you said you had a parade of exes."

He smirks. "I'm good at beginnings. But actually getting close to a person — that's where I freak out. Or shut down. Like, I get so scared of them leaving, or not liking me, that I get frantic trying to cover up all my imperfections. Then I go into a crisis, 'cause it's like, I hid my problems so well that they don't even know me."

"Yeah," I say quietly, remembering Nikki. All that time worrying the monster inside me would claw its way up my throat, spew its venom and scare her away.

Jazzy says, "It's fuckin' confusing — being so desperate to get close to people, but flinching every time you're touched." He closes the internet browser. "Anyway! Sorry for spilling all that on you. Not really a great conversation topic."

"It's okay," I say. "I know the feeling. It was... validating, to hear someone say it."

He grins. "See, that's what I mean. You're real. Oh yeah, I should ask." He swivels in his chair to face me. "What pronouns do you prefer?"

I freeze. Heart, lungs, blood, skin, everything goes cold. It must be a set-up, some elaborate prank to mock me. I should have known this was coming — or should I? Expect this? Is this a question I'm going to have to get used to answering? More importantly, what is my answer?

"I don't know," I mumble.

"Oh, fuck, I'm sorry." Jazzy rakes his fingers through his hair. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. But um… I’m kind of shitty with tact. Sorry.”  
"No… it's okay," I say. I hear myself laugh — a sharp, small, awkward sound, made to fill the silence, nothing to do with anything being funny. Not tough and masculine, nor pretty and feminine. Sexless, unsexy noise. "It was… actually nice to be asked. I'm just, um, not used to having a choice."

"I ask all my friends," says Jazzy. "I mean, it seems polite to call people what they’re comfortable with."

Since when was I ever comfortable? Almost as far back as I can remember, I've felt like, when people look at me, they're seeing a mirage. This artificial construct that, eventually, they're going to catch on to. And I hate that I care what they think, hate them and hate myself for feeling like I owe them something.

"To be honest," I say, "I don't know what I'm comfortable with."

I look at him, daring him — say something stupid, fight me, hate me, please. Stare or glare or cringe, do the wrong thing. Because it's easier than exposing myself like this, easier than having to answer the thousand questions that spring up like weeds from the spores of that one. This is me. And I'm not sure who that is, or if I want to find out.

Instead, he says, “That’s okay. Sometimes it takes a while to figure out. And you can always change your mind.”

Everything circling my brain tumbles into my mouth. "When I came here, people just assumed from the way I looked that I was a guy. And… I really didn't mind that. I felt safer like this, and I preferred the way people acted around me — like, more direct. And they didn't expect me to talk as much. They said what was on their mind, even if it was insulting, because they saw me as strong enough to take it. And I liked that, I was so sick of feeling weak all the time.

"The whole reason I came to this city was to get away from my old life, and I thought I was doing okay. I couldn’t fit myself to what it meant to be a girl. But as a guy… I don’t know. I’m still stuck with myself.”

The computer sings to itself. I focus on just the guitar, then just the drums, try to concentrate on something besides my racing heartbeat. Then Jazzy says, "If it counts for anything, I like who you are.”

"Thanks," I say, unable to meet his gaze.

"Really. I know it was hard to say that. I think you're brave."

"I'm a freak."

"So am I. We can start a club."

I smile despite myself. I guess I did forget I was talking to the blue-haired guy who wears makeup. With sparkles in it.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” I say.

"Of course. Have you talked to anyone else?"

I groan. "No. I need to talk to Tohru, but I don't know how — she just thinks I'm a normal guy."

Jazzy thinks for a moment, then says, "Okay, a few things. First, cisgender guys aren't normal — trust me, we have all kinds of issues."

I laugh as my heartbeat trembles in my fingertips.

"Second — she had a girlfriend a few years ago. Did you know that?”

"Oh." I exhale; my lungs unclench, relaxing into an emptiness. "No one told me that."

Jazzy throws a planet-patterned pillow at me. "Get to know your girlfriend better!" Then more seriously, he says, "Also, um, I heard her talking to Brit, and she called you 'she.' I mean... it's not my business, but if you're not comfortable with that, maybe you should talk to her?"  
I press my palm to my forehead. She knows? That should be good, right? Now she won’t find out and leave. But then I think of her telling Brit, telling everyone, the way they’ll look at me —

“I don’t understand why I’m like this,” I say. “I just want to be happy.”

Jazzy says, “You will be.”

"I want her to like me."

"She does like you. Trust me. The way she looks at you, the way she talks to you — it's special. She really does care about you."

I nod, too drained to even whisper.

The track changes to a new song, the bass thrumming quietly along the bare floorboards. The singer croons, sad and hopeful and tired.

Jazzy says, “I can change the song, if you want. If it’s too sad.”

I shake my head. "I like it."

"Yeah. Me too."

We listen, not talking, until it finishes. The song is desperate, and vulnerable, and imperfect, and yet… it is perfect. Raw nerves brought to the surface and singing. Something true.

As it draws to a close, Jazzy turns off the music and ejects the disc. "I don't think anything could top that."

He hands me the cd and I tuck it in my jacket.

"You know," he says, “it's always the sad songs that get me. Like, I spend so much time wondering what's wrong with me — why I feel empty, or lonely, or different, or desperate, but when someone else says it… it’s like that sense of alienation can actually bring you closer to others.”

“Yeah,” I say.

Sarah calls that the chicken has arrived, and Jazzy and I say our goodbyes.

"Sure you don't want to stay?" he asks.

"I have to make a phone call. Thanks, though — for everything."

“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you again soon.”

Back at my apartment, I set the phone on the table. Beside it I place a bowl of raspberries, shining with water from the tap. I dial Tohru’s number.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me."

"Oh, Akito! Hi! Is everything okay?"

"It's good. I just... I wanted to hear your voice."

I hear her smile over the phone. “I like hearing your voice, too. It’s a good voice.”

“How is your evening?”

“It’s good. I’ve been writing a lot, I have so many ideas lately. Thanks for asking. How’s yours?”

“It’s good. It’s been really good, actually. Um, there's something I wanted to talk to you about.”

I tell her — clumsily, haltingly. How Jazzy asked my pronoun and I didn't know. How I don't understand where I fit in the space between, and I know it's confusing, and I don't really have words for what I'm trying to say, and I understand if she's not okay with it but I need her to know, and I need to know —

My voice drops off. The phone shakes against my face.

There's a pause, and then she says, "Oh, Akito. It's okay. Are you okay?"

"Yes," I say, unconvincingly.

She says, "Thank you for telling me. It sounds hard to talk about."

I laugh. "Yeah."

"I wish I could hug you from over the phone."

"It's, um. Um."

Static crackles between us.

I say, "Do you still like me?"

"Yes," she says. "Of course. I like you a lot."

"I like you too."

The smile returns to her voice. "I don't know the most about trans issues — but I'm going to learn, okay? I want you to be comfortable, and if anything I do makes you uncomfortable — please, you’ll let me know?"

"I will." I pause. "You're sure it's okay, I mean... dating someone who doesn't even know what they are?"

"I know who you are," she says. "You're Akito. And I like you."

I thank her too many times, apologize too many times. But I did it. My blood vibrates like the bass, places me in my body, in my life. Suddenly everything is present tense.

We say goodnight and let each other go, say we'll see each other tomorrow. I hang up the phone.

One by one, I eat the raspberries, bright with tapwater. My stomach still aches when I'm done. I pace the room, debating, then finally allow myself to eat two of the cookies Tohru made. Sugar clings to my lips and I swallow. I don't know if anything has ever tasted so good. I drink a glass of juice, another "special occasion" luxury. Today is special enough.

Trembling with sugar and anxiety, I realize what I've done. There's no going back. It's okay, I tell myself. I'm okay. We're okay.  
For an unfamiliar moment, I am almost full. 

With a sharpie marker, I write on my inner arm, _She really does care about you._ I tug my sleeve over the words, keep them pressed to my skin. Maybe it's silly, and sentimental, but... it feels like it matters.

Starting on a third cookie, I hold the taste of apricot in my mouth. I close my eyes and promise I will try my best to exist.


	11. XI: The Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akito attempts to recover from disordered eating, but this is a bigger challenge than they expected. Hatori visits Ren in the hospital and Kana opens up about her past.
> 
> Chapter title comes from a song by Ben Howard.

**Akito**

Deciding to exist turns out to be easier said than done. 

I wake up each day, eat a bowl of cereal, pack a lunch of fruit and vegetables. Sometimes I include crackers or a yogurt, struggling to remember what normal people eat. 

At school, my mind works more quickly, though my stomach twists and my legs shake. I'm not as cold or as dizzy as I've become accustomed to — I hadn't realized how bad I'd felt until things begin to improve. Colours look sharper, and I'm quicker in conversation. The cold in me is replaced by something pulsing, hot, at times uncomfortably so. In Athletic Advancement, I run to get the energy out. "I'm impressed by your improvement," says Ms Shiraki. "But be careful not to push yourself too far." 

I nod, but I feel strong. I'm getting better and better. After running, my heart pumps in my chest, and for a while, my body feels like mine. 

I change in a cubicle in a rarely-used boys' washroom, then meet Tohru and our friends for lunch. 

The first day after the phone call, as I walk towards the cafeteria, I'm terrified. That I had misinterpreted our conversation, that she had somehow rejected me and I was just too stupid to realize. I play our words over and over in my mind, looking for signs that I never should have opened up about myself. 

But as I sit down beside her, Tohru's face lights up with a smile. We talk about movies and music and plans for her New Years party while Kyo squabbles inanely with Yuki and Momiji. 

No one asks any more questions about pronouns — thankfully, because I'm no closer to an answer. "He" might not be exactly right, but I appreciate how it lets me blend in, slip by unnoticed, get through the day without incident — and to my relief, our group seems to be defaulting to that pronoun. "They" might be closer to truth, but I can't stand the attention it would attract. And "she" just feels like a reminder of all the expectations I failed to live up to. 

The more I think about it, the less certain I am that there's any real answer, any objective core of me. Or if there is, that any word could sum it up. 

Still, as Momiji passes around a packet of German candies and Jazzy says, "Make sure he gets some, too," and gestures in my direction, I find myself smiling. And as Tohru and I talk, touching hands, brushing up against the warmth of one another, I feel... okay. It's not a feeling I'm used to. 

-/-/-

Despite Tohru and our friends' acceptance, panic finds ways to seep through the cracks. I wake from dreams where Tohru abandons me, where I fail my classes, where I'm trapped in the house I grew up in and That Woman screams at me with a voice like nails, raising her hand to strike me. 

I lie in bed afraid to sleep, electrified with vague anxiety. At night, my sugar-sped thoughts become tangled and terrifying, crashing into each other, forcing me into dead ends. _Tohru's going to stop liking you. You'll never be good enough for her. You're just tricking her into caring about you._

I study until my body and mind are exhausted. Crouched at my desk, I copy out chapters from the textbook, memorize them word for word so I can be certain I won't fail. I wake up before my alarm with spasms in my wrist and shadows under my eyes, but my heart too loud to get back to sleep. 

I try to keep moving. During the day, I surround myself with others, afraid to be alone with my thoughts. And for the most part, it works. I walk Tohru home, go with her and her friends to museums and the mall. We browse the department store, laugh at haute couture we'll never be able to afford. One day we find a pair of tapered corduroy capris, embroidered with designs of pineapples, strawberries, and slices of watermelon, all the same size. They're seventy dollars.

"I wonder if anyone will buy them," says Tohru. "If they stock them, the store owners must think someone will. What do you think the story is, of the person who designed them?"

"Some poor farm boy," says Ritsu quietly, "with a dream."

Daniel joins in, "Growing up on the tropical farms of a small island off the coast of Hawaii, he aspired for more than picking mysteriously large strawberries and mysteriously small pineapples day in and day out."

The story evolves as we walk. The farm boy's journey takes him to three continents, and his fashion style, avant-garde-noveau-fruit, takes runways by storm. 

"Are you going to use any of these ideas in your movie?" I ask Tohru. She laughs. "How could I pass up such a beautiful story?"

"Make sure you include us in the credits."

"Of course." Tohru smiles. "My muses."

Daniel invites us to free shows at the theater where he works. Rin, Haru, Kyo, Yuki, and Yuki's girlfriend Machi join us to watch a truly terrible science fiction movie. 

At first Yuki tries to rationalize the plot — maybe the space lasers have some quality that lets them obliterate steel but only glance off organic matter — but Machi shushes him, and eventually he gives in and joins the rest of us in pelting the screen with popcorn. 

After the credits, Tohru walks towards the empty screen and begins to gather up the kernels beneath it.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"We made a mess. I don't want the people who work here to have to clean it up."

Ordinarily I wouldn't care, but I accompany in tidying because she's here. Soon the rest of our group joins us — though with Kyo and Yuki throwing the kernels at each other, it may have been faster without their help.

Tohru doesn't complain about the difficulty of seeing the screen, but I try to suggest activities she can more fully participate in. Cooking together. Watching movies on her laptop, which she can see better. Her and I sit in her room on the bed, watching the computer and leaning into one another, her body warm against mine. As the days go on, our kisses grow deeper. She pulls me towards her and for a moment, I feel that she wants me as much as I need her. 

As I walk home from her house through the deep blue streets, I'm suddenly aware of all the stars. Their diamonds of light shine down through thousands of years, covering the icy earth in light. 

-/-/-

If no one is around after school, I run and run through the white streets, pinpricks of snow turning to water on my burning skin. My thoughts race as I swerve between the winter trees, the pulse inside me gaining strength. This energy feels too big for my body, like if I stop moving, I'll explode. 

I don't know if I feel powerful or powerless. But I know something inside me is changing, and I know I don't have the option of going back.

-/-/-

At the grocery store, I stand in the aisle, the too-white lights leaking greenishly into my skin. I walk past the diet lime yogurt, its saccharine sting and smell like dishsoap. But I feel a twinge of longing. A few weeks ago, I would have bought the yogurt, promising myself, _This is temporary. Once I'm thin enough, I won't have to eat this anymore._

But now I stand, surrounded by abundance, unsure what to do with any of it. I stock my basket almost at random before I'm overwhelmed and have to leave the store. 

Some days I buy junk food, bags of chips, but can never bring myself to eat them. Once I'm home, I shove them in a drawer, out of sight, but afraid to throw them away. 

Maybe I can't eat them, but I still own them. If I can't have them, no one else can either.

Self-punishment is a hard addiction to break.

-/-/-

"I brought this for you." 

At school one day, a hand sets down a can of diet soda in front of me. I look up from the lunch table to see Kureno, back from his flu. Of course. 

My heart thumps like it's going to break out of my chest. _I lost my mind on him at the party. If he tells Tohru about it, if she finds out about that side of me —_

"Why?" I say, narrowing my eyes at him. 

"I remembered you liked this kind." 

"Thanks," I say flatly. 

As the days pass, he continues to bring me sodas. He saves seats for me, pulls out chairs and opens doors. I mention studying for English class; the next day, he brings me a duotang of all his notes. 

He's trying to make it up to me, I realize. Those awful things I said to him... he believed me. 

_Well, shouldn't he? He said he'd look after me, keep me safe, and he didn't. He should feel bad. It was all his fault._

_But it wasn't really his fault._

I get nowhere in arguing with myself. Eventually, his subservience becomes routine. I barely notice him anymore. He brings me diet cola and I gulp it down.

-/-/-

**Hatori**

The first winter into university, I sat on the sofa in our apartment, waiting for Kana to come home from an exam. The sky through our window stung my eyes with a flat pale blue. I couldn’t believe how tired I was. 

The last few weeks, Kana had slept poorly, mumbling in nightmares. In her sleep, she alternated between pulling me close and shoving me away, weeping. I sat beside her as she drifted in and out of dreams I couldn't decipher.

When I asked her in the mornings what she'd been dreaming about, she said she didn’t remember. As before, she went through her days with the same smile, the same careful effort, the same desire to heal others. But at night, as she pushed me away, I wondered what she herself was healing from.

I didn’t pity her; she was one of the strongest people I knew. I just wished that I were stronger too, strong enough that I could know how to help her. 

The phone rang and I fumbled for the receiver. 

On the other end, my father told me to sit down, then told me Ren had been hospitalized. "Akito found her," he said. "Poor child."

"Is she okay?"

"Ren's physically stable, but they're going to keep her in psych. Didn't say how long. Akito's shaken, but she won't talk about it — you know how she is."

"I'm coming home."

"You're finished your exams?"

"Yes. I'll be home in a few hours."

"Okay." After a pause, he said, "You know I'm proud of you for helping them. But make sure you take care of yourself as well. Don't burn out."

"I won't."

"She's lucky to have you in her life."

"Thanks," I said, although lucky wasn't the word that came to mind when I thought of what Akito was going through. I said goodbye to my father, hung up the receiver, and began to pack my bags for the trip home.

-/-/-

My aunt and uncle welcomed Kana and I into the kitchen, opening their arms to take our winter coats. As my uncle showed Kana the photos on the fridge, my aunt pulled me aside. 

"She hasn't left her room since she found her," said my aunt, shaking her head. "Akito was doing so well, and now... oh, I could kill that woman." I'd never heard my aunt speak violently before. Her feathery hair and tiny build always reminded me of a sparrow, especially paired with her quick, delicate mannerisms and the chirp of her voice. She twisted a fluff of dyed-brown hair around her finger, her eyes bright and hurt. 

"I'll go talk to Akito," I said. 

My aunt nodded. "Thank you. I know she'd like that. You're the only one she trusts, you know."

I climbed the stairs and knocked on Akito’s door. No response. I entered. 

Akito sat in the corner, a puddle of black clothes amidst the bright decorations of my cousin's borrowed room. Her arms wrapped around her knees as she tucked her head down, making herself as small as possible. She didn't look up as I came in. 

"It's me," I said. She glanced at my face, then back at the floor. "I came as soon as I heard."

I sat down beside her. The yellow curtains swayed in the winter light. Origami swans dangled silently above our heads. Akito had changed nothing in the room since her arrival, as though she were staying for the weekend rather than the foreseeable future. It had been almost a year since she first arrived. 

"I'm not going to see her," said Akito, her voice shaking like pebbles dropped into water. 

"That's fine," I said. 

She glared at me through blades of black hair.

"I mean it. You shouldn't have to visit someone who mistreated you."

"She's still my mother." 

"That doesn't give her the right to act as she did.”

Akito collapsed into a cross-legged position, continued to stare at the woodgrain floor.

"Why did you come here," she said tonelessly. She seemed utterly emptied. 

"I wanted to see you. I care about you."

"You have Kana."

"I care about you both."

"That... Woman. She didn't think you could do that. She thinks... you have to pick one person, and then your life is all about them."

I'd heard this story in fragments. How Ren felt Akito had stolen Akira's affection, how her fear of abandonment had turned into viciousness towards her own daughter. I said, "Ren holds a lot of toxic viewpoints. But you aren't Ren."

"I'm like her."

"No." I thought for a moment, then said, "Genetics are parts of who we are. As is environment. But it's our choices that make up our real selves. You're not responsible for your mother's choices, nor does she control yours."

Akito was silent for several minutes. I didn’t think she was going to answer. “Thanks,” she said finally. Then, without a word, she put her arms around me, leaned her head into my shoulder. She shivered, first once, then again, not stopping. As something wet fell against my sleeve, I realized she was crying. 

"It's okay," I said, putting my arms around her. She held on to me. Her grip was surprising, coming from arms all drained of muscle, swallowed in the cotton of her sleeves.

-/-/-

"You're sure you don't want me to come in with you?"

"I'll be okay," I said. Kana squeezed my hand as I kissed her goodbye, then stepped out into the glaring sun of the parking lot. 

It felt strange to be back in the hospital where I had job shadowed in high school. Like the last year had been a dream, now dissipated into florescent light and sterilized air. I signed in and walked down the corridor, a white sea of beeping and mumbling, patients breathing through machines.

Ren lay with her head propped on a pillow, dark hair pooled around her. Beneath the papery sheets, her thin body lay splayed painfully, yet she made no effort to move. I thought she was asleep, but as I sat down across from her, her narrowed eyes followed me.

"Hello, Ren."

She let out a rattling breath. 

"How are you feeling?"

"Why are you here?" she exhaled, her voice a rusted hinge. 

"I wanted to check how you were doing."

"Garbage."

Unsure whether that was an accusation or an answer, I said, "Would you like anything?"

"She sent you."

"Who?"

"My daughter."

"No. I came on my own volition." I averted my eyes from the bandages on her arms. 

"You don't care about me," said Ren. "You took her away from me."

"You sent her away."

"Pah. Parents say things. Like you've never had a fight with your mother." She looked down at her nails. They'd been cut short, probably by the hospital staff. Shreds of red polish clung to them like blood.

Ren looked into my eyes and said, "It's my fault she's like this."

"Like what?"

"...Wrong."

"Akito's a strong person."

"I messed her up,” she said, as though daring me to disagree.

A surge of frustration swept under my skin. _Yes, you did._ I couldn't pity Ren as a victim of her own actions. As she lay crumpled on the bed, I couldn't believe one frail person could cause so much damage. 

I pushed down the thoughts. It wasn't right to feel this way towards a sick person.

"Akito's doing better," I say. "But she's worried about you."

Ren laughed bitterly. "Why would she worry? She hates me."

"You're still her mother. If you don't want her in your life... keep her out of your life. But don't go back and forth like this. She has no idea who she can trust. She's terrified."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this." Ren glared at the air in front of her. "He wasn't supposed to leave."

"Akira?"

"He wasn't supposed to leave."

"He didn't choose his illness."

"He was the one who wanted children. I never wanted this."

"No one chooses their life. We do the best we can with what we have." I stood up, adjusted her bedsheets to make her more comfortable. "Akira passed on. It's tragic, but there's nothing you could have done. You're alive now. You can still live a meaningful life."

Her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. "Everyone leaves me. How can I make a life when there's no one left?"

"That's not true," I said, keeping my voice neutral. Her short nails dug into my skin. 

"He left me. Then she did." Abruptly, she dropped my arm, as though all her muscles had given out. "Am I really so horrible to be around?"

I picked up a blanket she'd knocked to the ground, draped it over her. Said, "Everyone wants you to get better."

"Why do you visit me?" Her eyes sharpened. "You don't even like me."

 _No one chooses their life. We do the best we can with what we have._ I said, "I want you to get well. I want to help you."

She stared hard at the air again, like there was something there only she could see. "It's not right for a husband and wife to be apart so long. I don't understand. Why couldn't I join him?"

"Maybe you're meant to live."

She stared at me the same way she'd stared at the nothingness. "What for?"

"I think that's something you have to decide for yourself."

When I left the room, the hallway looked strange; small and faraway in the unnatural lighting. I felt both enormous and powerless. Walking back to the car, I realized how much my arm hurt. I examined it to find five spots darkening to blue, bruised where Ren had grabbed me.

"How was she?" said Kana as I stepped into the car.

"Intense," I said. She drew me into a hug. I flinched as she brushed my injured arm, but I was grateful for the touch.

-/-/-

Kana and I drove back to my parents' house. Over dinner, my mom asked about our studies, then how Ren was doing. "She still seems quite unhappy," I said. My parents nodded, then resumed eating. 

I hadn't realized how silent my household was until I'd left. Kana and I often laughed over dinner, talking about our days and making jokes. But tonight even she was quiet. I tried not to look at the shadows under her eyes, evident despite her efforts to cover them with makeup. She complimented my father's cooking, but there was a quaver in her smile that I didn't understand. 

As my parents made up the guest bedroom for Kana, I kissed her goodnight, then retreated to the bedroom of my adolescence. A used copy of _Grey's Anatomy_ stared down at me from the bookshelf, beside _The Human Brain_ and _Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures._ Books of science fiction, gifts from friends and family, lined the bottom shelves, their spines uncracked. Neatly folded scarves and blazers accumulated dust. 

The whole display left me feeling empty in a way I couldn't quite explain. I lay down and switched off the lamp, let the night creep down in a layer of blue. 

I woke in darkness, to the sound of pain. At first I thought it was a dream; but the sound didn't evaporate with the other sensations my mind had constructed. I walked through the blue dark towards to source, came to the door of the guest room. "Kana?" I whispered. No response, just the same continuous pleading. I knocked. "Kana?" Gently, I pushed open the door.

She lay curled into herself, shaking with a nightmare as I'd seen so many times before. I put my hand on my shoulder. "Kana, what is it? You're okay. Kana, wake up."

Her eyes snapped open, pupils constricted with panic as she gasped to the surface of sleep. Her hand jerked out as though to hit me, but she caught herself. "Tori... Tori, I'm sorry —"

"There's nothing to apologize for. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I think — just a nightmare." She tried to laugh but it shattered in her throat. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Don't worry about that. Is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. I'll be okay." She smiled unconvincingly. 

"Is it okay if I sit with you for a bit?"

"Yes. I'd like that. Thanks."

I climbed into bed beside her and she snuggled into me. "This is nice," she said. But her voice was thin and glassy.

The shadows of pine branches danced across the walls. As a soft storm howled through the window, I drew myself to her warmth. She pressed against me and I felt her heartbeat racing. She shivered. I pulled the blanket over us. 

"Kana," I said. "I know I might not understand, but... you do know you can talk to me? I'll always listen to you."

She took a moment to answer. "It's stupid," she said, almost inaudible. "I should be over it."

"You're not stupid. Don't talk that way about someone I love."

A laugh trembled through her. "I love you too. I'm sorry I'm like this."

"You're allowed to have feelings. It's part of why I love you — you're smart, and you're kind, and you're empathetic — Kana, you're amazing. I've never met anyone else like you."

She wrapped her arms around me, held me tightly. Her mouth pressed against mine in the dark, left the taste of tears on my lips. "I love you too," she whispered, again. "You're a good person, Hatori Sohma."

We lay in the dark. I listened to the sound of her breathing. After a long silence, she said, "Is it okay if I tell you something?"

"Of course."

"I..." She took a deep breath. "I think you're the first person I've loved, besides my family. I wish I'd known that earlier, known what love was. When I was in high school, before I met you, I thought I loved someone. But now I don't think so. I think it was fear. But... it's funny how the two sometimes feel the same."

She seemed to shrink as she spoke. I took her hand and she laced her fingers through mine, held on. She filled herself with another breath.

"My last boyfriend... he wasn't a good person. The world wasn't fair to him, and he was angry — he had a right to be angry — and I wanted to help him. I tried to give him everything he wanted, but I think I just made him angrier. It's like... there was a void inside him that he was trying to fill, and I wanted to be enough to fill it. Maybe that's selfish of me. But I wasn't enough. And he resented me for it, and I resented myself for it. I was afraid of him. But I felt too guilty to leave. I mean, if it was actually that bad... I wouldn't doubt myself, right? I'd know.

"But being with him... it felt like my soul was dying. Like I was giving everything I had inside me, and if I stayed, there would be nothing left. So... I left. I felt like it would kill him, but I left. And it didn't kill him. 

"Three weeks ago, I found out he's engaged now. His photos showed up in my Facebook feed — the site suggested we should be friends, said we had friends in common. He and his girlfriend... they looked _happy_ together. And I wanted to warn her, but all over the photos, people are commenting how happy they are, what a good guy he is, and... I'm scared to ruin it. It makes me wonder if maybe he wasn't that bad. If maybe I just made it up."

Her words dropped off. She shook hard, a rainstorm on glass. 

"You didn't make it up," I said. "I believe you." 

I knew it wasn't enough, but it was all I could offer.

"Thank you," she said.

I lay beside her, listening to her breathing. Through the curtains, the sun diluted the horizon from black to pink. The day crept towards us, unstoppable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, 50,000 words! Thank you everyone who read to this point. I really appreciate that you put the time into reading my story. This chapter took longer to post than planned, as I've been struggling with my mental health, but I'm doing better for now. Hope everyone is having a good 2016.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism is highly appreciated, and feedback in general makes my day.


	12. XII: Spent Gladiator One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tohru remembers S and how the two grew closer. Yuki lets Akito and Tohru in on a secret plan. Tohru remembers her mom and an important moment the two shared together. Akito has a panic attack and struggles to cope with overwhelming impulses.
> 
> Chapter title comes from the Mountain Goats Song "Amy or Spent Gladiator 1."

**Tohru**

My first year of high school, I spent most of my time in class, at home with my mom, or out with S and her friends. Every lunch hour, Ritsu, Daniel, S and I met up in an old classroom in the school basement. Band class had once been held here, years ago, and out-of-date instruments still cluttered the closets. Amidst the smell of dust, S unearthed a keyboard and lifted melodies from the old keys, wove notes amongst the hiss and grumble of the pipes and boilers. Daniel hummed or drummed along, while Ritsu sketched and sewed for fashion class.

Before Ritsu came to high school and met Daniel and S, he'd been bullied for his delicate mannerisms and the way he dressed. The things that made him unique, that made him the person we loved so much, made others want to hurt him. I couldn't understand it. His classmates had torn his clothes, tied knots in his long hair, stolen his shoes so he'd have to walk home barefoot in the snow. Yet he hadn't changed. Despite teachers and guidance councilors telling him to try blending in, attract less attention, tone down his appearance for his own safety — he hadn't. He remained Ritsu. 

He jolted at every small sound, constantly checked over his shoulder. He shied away from eye contact and said "sorry" more often than any other word. But his smile was radiant, framed by tiger-lily coloured hair, and when he laughed it sparkled like the silver scarves he wore. Even with Daniel's coolness and S's toughness, he was still the bravest one in our group.

Daniel had found this room for us, where S could practice and Ritsu wouldn't be startled by strangers coming in. I was surprised to be invited along. S didn't like most people, yet whenever I said hi to her, a smile chimed through her voice. I didn't understand why she liked me, but I was happy that she did.

As she practiced, I wrote to the sound of her music, tried to find words and sounds and images to hold the fluttering warmth in my chest. When I was around S, or thinking about her, I felt... awake. Like sounds had grown clearer, more musical, because I was learning to hear them the way she did. 

S's band, Poisonfox, wasn't the kind of music I thought I would like. They were loud and angry, a jagged wall of static and growls. But I learned to listen for S in the noise, her notes streaming sense through the chaos. The fierce gentleness of her melodies, beautiful and complex and refusing to be overpowered, diving into the swell of bass and shaking floorboards and lifting it into music. 

She communicated through the keyboard like it was a natural part of her body, an extension of her voice. The melodies as easy as speech, or breathing.

Even when she wasn't playing, she wore her headphones around her neck, so that music crackled all around her.

I liked how she put her arms around me when she was in a good mood. I liked her smell of cinnamon and the warmth of her skin through her clothes, how her body fit against mine.

I liked how she didn't laugh very often, but when she did, I knew she meant it. My whole mind and body lit up when I was the one to make her laugh. 

S didn't always get along with her family, so after school we would meet again in the band room or go out for pizza or Chinese food. She stayed out late, but I went home after an hour or so, wanting to spend as much time as possible with my mom.  


-/-/-  
  
The first time S came to my house, I described the rooms to her. Her voice sparked to life when I mentioned the piano, an old Aldrich my mom had found for free on Craigslist. "Oh, cool! Who plays it?"

"My mom does sometimes. She just started learning." 

"Cool, good for her. Do you play?"

I tried," I said. "As a kid."

She drew closer to me. I could feel her body heat and had to resist the urge to lean in against the softness of her hair, the notched curve of her spine. "Can you play me a song?" she said.

"I'm not really that good."

“It’s not about being good. It’s about, like, giving the noise inside you a place to go.” She added, more gently, "It's your choice, though. No pressure."

"No, I'll try."

I sat down on the bench and fit my hands to the keys. Dust collected in the ridges of my fingerprints.

Curled in muscle memory, I found the first few bars of Amazing Grace. I used to practice for hours, trying to please the third grade music teacher. My mom always told me I was good, that she was proud of me for playing. But I knew I was the worst in my class, fingers clumsy, my mind unable to translate the notation into sound.

Now my hands shook the notes from the keys, hung them on the living room like uneven icicles.

They fell and shattered. My fingers froze. "I haven't played in a long time."

"Hey, it's okay," said S. She put her hand on my shoulders and I closed my eyes, finally gave in and let myself learn against her. She'd touched me first, after all, so it was okay. I needed the reassurance. "It was good for the first time in a while."

I tried to keep my voice steady. "I wish I could give you something better."

"No, it was good."

She sat down beside me. I leaned into the warmth of her, worried she'd move away. Instead, she put her chin on my head. I felt the breath move through her. I can't explain why I found that so miraculous. "Thanks," I said. "Do you want to play something?"

Her body loosened like a smile. "Sure."

She began to play a song I'd never heard before. Eyes closed, I listened as the notes braided together, lapped against the walls like waves. In her right hand I heard rain passing through leaves. The left thrummed like gravity, called the droplets home to the ocean.

The sound rose, poised to overflow the house and split open the walls and ceiling. I imagined the bare sky touching my skin.

When the song slowed, S pressed the keys so softly it was almost overwhelming. The strings vibrated in smaller, smaller motions, until they were no longer audible. But I still felt them, below the surface, humming.  


-/-/-

**Yuki  
**   
"Can we trust her?"

"Yeah." Jazzy stumbles in his six-inch platform boots, tries to act as though nothing has happened. Two boys walking by us in the hallway laugh, and Jazzy sticks our his tongue at them and tosses his hair in a glamorous flip. Turning back to us, he continues, "I mean, Akito trusts her, so why shouldn't we?" 

Rin pinches the bridge of her nose like she has a headache, then stares intently at the space above his head. Even considering his outlandish shoes, she's significantly taller than him. "She doesn't strike me as particularly anti-authority." 

Jazzy shrugs. "You make exceptions for the person you're dating." 

"Maybe _you_ do. But I can see her as the type to turn us in. For our own good, or some crap." 

"I thought you liked her."

"I do. That doesn't mean I trust her." 

"I think we should tell her," interjects a monotone. Rin, Jazzy, and myself turn to see Haru sitting on a bench in the hallway. "Wait. Who are you guys talking about?"

"Tohru," says Rin. "And when did you get here?"

"Is that any way to say hi to me?" he says, standing up to kiss her. Her glare softens, and she's smiling as they break apart, though she quickly makes a show of reverting to her serious expression.

"Don't worry," says Haru, "no one else heard you. And if they did, they wouldn't know the context." 

Around us, the halls pulse with students, pushing past to get to the cafeteria. It's true; no one lingers to listen. 

"I think we should trust her," Haru says again.

"Why?" says Rin. 

He shrugs. "She has a good vibe. Doesn't judge us."

"We can't risk getting kicked out of school based on your vibe." 

"She seems like an ethical person. I don't think she'd make trouble."

"In this situation, we're the trouble. Someone sweet and innocent like that —"

"I think we should tell her," I say. They turn to look at me. 

"It's the whole idea of the project, isn't it? To be inclusive. Not to judge people by their looks, or their reputation. Just because she's quiet doesn't mean she has nothing to say."

Rin fixes me with her gaze. "You want to risk the whole project on that theory?"

"Yes," I say. "If we don't hold to our ideals, it defeats the entire purpose."

After a pause, she breaks eye contact and says, "Okay." She turns, sweeping towards the lunch room, and the rest of us follow. 

("It didn't have to be that dramatic," mutters Jazzy. "If we tell Akito, he's obviously gonna tell her anyway...")

In the cafeteria, we find Tohru, Akito, and Kyo seated at the usual table. Tohru and Akito pore over class notes together, while Kyo glowers at a game on his phone, his sneakers propped on the table. 

Tohru looks up as Rin, Haru, Jazzy, and myself gather around. "What is it?" she says, "Is everything okay?" 

"Your Christmas gift," says Rin. "Come with us. Not you," she adds to Kyo. 

"Like I'd want your stupid present," he says. The beeping from his phone intensifies as he jabs his finger more aggressively at the game. 

"We'll be right back," Tohru says, then adds nervously, "right?"

"Oh yeah," says Rin. "Just a few minutes."

Akito and Tohru follow us out into the snow, hesitant, but trusting enough to hear what we have to say.  
**-/-/-**

__  
"We hold our arms like broken wings.  
Our feathers clipped,  
Nobody sings.  
Around our footsteps, silence falls.  
Petals blackly  
Drown us out.  
One day,  
Song will slip  
Untranslated  
Past our lips  
Through the floorboards,  
Through the ground  
We'll close our eyes  
And jump. No sound,  
no pause, no goodbyes,  
Under our shoes  
We'll feel sky."  
  
Rin's clear voice rang through the park as Kureno, Haru, Britt and I sat listening. The late-summer sun beat gold on our picnic table, the air thick with birdsong and the smell of grass. Rin stood tall, centered in the sky's blue burn.

Even Momiji and Jazzy had ceased their game of kick-the-juicebox to listen to her read. Once she'd finished, Rin slammed the tattered looseleaf down on the table. She turned to Kureno and said, "Why didn't you tell us you could write?"

Dragonflies buzzed amidst the tall grass. "It's not important," he said, and reached for the paper.

Rin snatched it back. "Yes, it is. If you can't appreciate your talent, you don't deserve to have it."

Kureno's expression remained neutral. "What do you think I should do?"

"There are literary magazines you could send it to," I said.

"Doesn't our school have a competition for that?" said Haru. "They pick the best poem and put it in a magazine."

Britt slithered the paper away when Rin wasn't looking and handed it back to Kureno, who nodded solemnly.

"That's their definition of best, though," said Rin. She sounded more tired than angry. "Like, it will be some shitty don't-do-drugs diatribe, or 'don't have an eating disorder.' They'd never let us talk about why people have those problems. Because that's too depressing. Like, Kureno, I love your poem, okay? But they'd never print something that didn't have a happy ending."

"I thought it was happy," said Britt. "I thought the last lines meant freedom. Like, the bird had clipped feathers, but now it's flying."

"I thought it meant dying," said Haru. "The bird would just fall."

"What did you mean intend it to mean?" I asked.

Kureno frowned at the paper. " I'm not sure," he said. He folded the sheet and slid it into the pocket of his torn black jeans. "I should probably work on it some more."

"It just drives me crazy," said Rin. She lay down and stretched out on the grass. Her dark hair glowed in the approaching sunset, lit with the red and orange tones that had begun to speckle the leaves. "People our age are dealing with these huge issues, and there's nowhere to talk about them.  


Haru sat cross-legged beside her, picking the seeds off a dandelion and spinning them into the air like tiny helicopters. Momiji, who had been quiet until now, said, "But we made our own place. You're my friends. If I want to talk about something... I talk to you guys."

This finally earned a smile from Rin. "Thanks. I feel the same about you. It's just... I wish we could do that for more people." She paused, as though debating whether to say more. She closed her eyes. "When I got sick and things were bad at home, before I knew you all... it really seemed like the world was ending. Like I was entirely alone, because if I talked about how I lived, it would come across as asking for attention. I didn't know anyone like me; I didn't even feel human. I couldn't see myself in books or movies or on tv, unless it was a very special episode and you were supposed to feel sorry for them. They weren't people — they were plot devices."

She opened her eyes and they shone with the afternoon sunlight. " My life is good now. I know that. But other kids are going through what I went through, and it's fucked that I can't do anything about it."

"What if we made our own magazine?" said Haru.

"How would we pay for printing?" said Jazzy. "And getting the word out... I guess we could do an online thing, mass-message the link to everyone enrolled — whoever sent the it could get in trouble, but people would see it."

"The yearbook," I said. "Britt, you're in yearbook class — that means you have the authorization codes to edit it, right?"

"I do..." she said. "But the teachers check what we put in it."

"What if we switched the data at the last minute? We could keep the cover and the first and last pages the same, in case they check when printing it — but inside, it's our work. Our stories — or art, or poems. A yearbook that represents our real voices, not just the school's reputation."

Haru nodded, but Britt looked down at the grass. The others were listening. I continued. "We don't have to do it if everyone isn't in. But if we'd get in trouble just for sending an email... this will get the word out to more people. A website could get taken down, but this is something tangible. And if they come after us... My record's clean. The teachers like me. I can shoulder the blame."

Britt chewed her lip, then spoke slowly. "If you really want to do it, I'll help you."

"Same," said Jazzy.

"I don't know how helpful I can be, but I want to help," said Momiji.

"You can bring candy to our meetings," said Jazzy. "We'll have secret meetings, right? It will be super badass spy shit. With candy."

"Then I'm definitely in," said Haru.

"I'll do my part," said Kureno.

"Okay," said Rin. "It's a plan."

**-/-/-**

On a bench in the snow, I tell Akito and Tohru what we have in mind. "You don't have to, of course," I finish. "But if either of you are interested, you're welcome to join us."

Akito stands with his hands in his pockets. His dark eyes cut into mine, and I'm not sure if he's angry or deep in thought. Or suspicion.

Tohru says, "It's creative. And your cause is good. But... aren't you afraid you'll get in trouble? I know Yuki said he'd take the blame, but if you get caught..." She fidgeted with the sleeve of her sun-coloured sweater. "What if it goes on your record?"

"They won't be able to do anything about it, though!" Jazzy bounces on the balls of his feet. "We'll already be graduated by the time they print it. And colleges will have let us know if we're accepted or not."

"Isn't it a conditional acceptance?" says Tohru, her brow furrowed.

Rin says, "No one's saying it doesn't have its risks. Just that it's worth it." She exhales a stream of white air. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to."  


Jazzy speaks rapidly, excitement vibrating his small frame. "Most of us are going into artistic fields, so a certain degree of notoriety isn't a bad thing — you can't get your name out if you stick inside the lines. And any program that wouldn't want us because we made an art project, because we stood up for what we believe in — well, fuck them, right?"

"Hey, Akito." Haru scratches at one of his many-pierced ears. "What do you think?"

"I don't know why you're telling us this," says Akito, his small fists clenched at his sides. "I don't know what you want us to do."

I say, "We wanted to give you a chance to participate. You and Tohru are our friends, and it seems right to include you if you want to be included."

"That's it?"

"That's it. No ulterior motive."

Akito speaks as though he's trying very hard not to yell. "Why now? You could have done something like this years ago, when there would have been fewer consequences."

"Yeah, but Yuki only thought of it this summer," says Haru.

"Well, what about in the future? I'm sure all these art colleges you're talking about will have magazines."

"Yeah, but this is..." Jazzy flicks a lighter on and off. A year ago he would have reached for a cigarette, but instead he stares into the orange heat of the flame. After a few seconds he collects his thoughts, puts it back in his pocket, takes a deep breath and speaks slightly less rapidly. "This is fucking urgent. Those art school kids, they're not our audience — probably mostly rich shitheads — we're trying to reach people who need it. You know, regular weirdos, who maybe haven't seen themselves represented. Not some hipster who wants a seven dollar pamphlet.

"And... I don't know. It's graduation. It feels like it should mean something. Like we should have learned something besides how to write a standardized test. We should have figured out something we can offer to other people." He looks downcast for a moment, then back up, breaks into a grin. "So, yeah. That's it. Are you in?"

Akito doesn't look at him. "I'm not really the creative type."

He shrugs. "Up to you. Tohru?"

"I'll need to think about it. But... is it okay if we tell Kyo, too?"

"Would he care about something like this?" says Rin.

"Yes! He loves art, he has these graphic novels he works on — and, um, you said you wanted your project to help people. He does a lot of volunteer work Everything in this project, it's everything important to him. I don't..." She grasps Akito's hand. His fist uncurls and he laces his fingers with hers, and she looks up, more confident. "I don't know if this project is a good idea or not. But you're trying to do something good, and that matters. I'll help you if I can. But... I think it's right that you let him know too."

Rin says, "You're sure he wouldn't report us, just to piss off Yuki?"

"No," she says. "He wouldn't do that."

"It's true," says Akito, as though the words taste unpleasant and he wants to get them out of his mouth. "He's not the type of person who would report anyone."

Haru says, "Yuki?"

Tohru trusting Kyo is no surprise, but Akito's vote of confidence catches me off guard. He's the only one who possibly dislikes Kyo more than I do, and yet... he's right.

Kyo does a lot of things I can't stand. But I can't imagine him reporting us.

I fight the urge to grind my teeth. We did say we wouldn't judge people on preconceptions.

"You can tell him," I say. "Just make sure no one else finds out."

Tohru hugs me. "Thank you."

"Oh, um, you're welcome."

She smiles, lighting the grey sky. "It's an adventure. We're in it together. So... thanks for including me. And I'll do my best."

Akito's stony expression softens, though he remains silent as we walk back into the school.

Back inside, we find Kyo sitting alone at the table, finger still stabbing at the game on his phone.

"Angry Birds?" I say.

He looks up with a glare. "Freerice dot com. They donate rice to people if you get vocabulary words right."

"Oh. I wouldn't have pegged that as something you'd be into."

"The hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one who can be smart, asshat." He smirks at his phone, then lets out a groan. "Oh, come _on!_ How is anyone supposed to know a mutchkin is a fucking measure of liquid?"

He curses and exclaims, and the world returns to the reality I'm familiar with.

**-/-/-**

**Tohru**

My mom's paintings are amazing. Alone in my room, I press my face close to the crinkles of paint, my eyelashes nearly brushing the raised whorls. I slink into the seascape, surround myself with the night sky on the water, wrap myself in stars. Fragments of blue, indigo, pinpoints of light on the trembling waves.

If I look close enough, at just the right angle, there's a small boat. Black lines of wood blended and dwarfed by the dark waves, but not swallowed. The cabin pours amber; ripples of light crinkle the sea, saying, _I'm here. I'm here._

I draw my face back, blinking tears from my eyelashes.

**-/-/-**

The smell of jasmine tea washed over me, warmth blossoming through my body as I stepped in from the cold. "You're here!" My mom's footsteps tumbled down the stairs and she fell into me with a hug. "How was school?"

"Good," I said, "I had lunch with some friends."

"No S today?"

"Her band has practice. The metal festival is this weekend, and if they win they'll get played on the radio." 

"Wow, that's great! They work very hard." Up close, I saw the speckles of paint in her hair, a smear of sunlight-yellow where she must have itched her cheek. She grinned amongst the wisps of colour. "Want to see what I've been working on?"

"Of course!" 

I took off my boots, shook the snow from my hair and followed her. As we walked up the stairs, I tried not to focus on the roughness of her breathing.

_She's okay she's okay. This is a good day. She isn't in pain. She's happy._

"I just need to figure —" (cough) "— figure out what to do with the gold paint. So I don't unbalance the frame." I felt the smile in her voice. "I read that art book you get me. Learning the terminology."

"It's beautiful," I said, drawing closer to the painting. The mosaic of night and sea shone with still-wet paint.

She'd started painting two months ago, going to a free class at the library when she had the energy. Her coworkers at the grocery store had brought her paints and brushes for her birthday; even with the language barrier, her and her coworkers loved each other, made each other laugh. She'd also taken up piano lessons from a music student who lived in our building, teaching her Japanese in exchange for musical guidance.

Even sick, my mom was restless. Until six months ago, she'd been a passionate reader, books in Japanese and simple English, both fiction and non-fiction. "It's a habit from your dad," she used to tell me. He'd been an English teacher in Japan, where they'd met. "I love having a... window, into what other peoples' lives are like. What they do and think about." As her prognosis had gotten worse, she'd turned to writing herself, and painting, playing music. Trying to make something. "I don't care if I'm good at it," she'd said. "I just want to participate."

I thought of what S had said, her fingers on mine on the keyboard, guiding me: _What you make, that's your voice. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of it — you've made something only you can. It's one of a kind. A perfect you._

S's hands on mine. Her scent of cardamom and cinnamon. The softness of her hoodie as she put her arm around my shoulders, the solidity of her skin under her clothes as she held me.

A lump rose in my throat. "You could put the gold on the waves," I said. "Coming out of the boat. Like light."

"Are you okay?" asked my mom.

I nodded. "Just a long day."

She hugged me again, kissed my hair. "Anyway, I love that idea. That would give warmth to the picture. Put life in it." She pointed to the tiny boat. "That's us," she said. "On our trip. It was a good trip, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I said. "The best."

"Oh, um." She laughed. "I was going to make a soup but it... caught fire. Who knew soup could do that? So I was thinking pizza tonight."

"I can cook, I don't mind."

"No! You've been cooking every day, and so busy with school... you're sixteen, you deserve a chance to relax. We can catch up a bit. What kind would you like?"

"Mm... Mediterranean."

We descended the stairs as she dialed and waited on the line. Though her steps were quick, I heard the catches in her breath, the scratches as she inhaled.

"Hi (cough), a medium Mediterranean, please. Delivery. Yes (cough), same address. Thank you. You too."

She poured tea while I cleared pages off the table, health and insurance documents scattered between pages of her writing (a novel/poem/essay/autobiography — the genre changed every two weeks, as did the language — the words flowed between English and Japanese, sometimes shifting mid-sentence, as she sifted through thoughts and observations. The crystal redness of roses, the sun in the silver fur of a neighborhood cat, Meena's jokes at work, the cries of geese as they met their shadows on the snowy reservoir, her childhood in Kyoto, watching from a train as the moon followed her over shining rice paddies, watching from a plane as a city she'd never seen before glistened like embers. A book of a life, scattered between bills and paperwork.)

She smiled, setting the tea in front of me. Her red hair was cut short again, to get ready for the next round of chemo. Behind the jasmine steam, the room smelled faintly of the food she had burnt. I took a long sip of the tea, held its warmth against my tongue, and breathed in.

"How's school lately?" she asked.

"It's good, thanks. Kind of busy... but good."

Slipping into Japanese, she said, "I'm always impressed how hard you work. Wish I'd been that smart at your age."

"It's okay. You're smart in other ways." My mom always talked about how she didn't work hard in high school, how she'd dropped out at my age. She didn't get along with her parents, so she wanted to work and live on her own as soon as possible. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. She did what she had to, to have a life where she was happy and safe, even if it was hard.

"How are things with friends?"

"Good." I felt warmth rise in my face. I tried to still my leg, which was shaking under the table. "Um, there's actually something I wanted to ask you."

"Oh? For sure, ask away."

I felt like my heart would break my chest. I knew it was silly, that it would be fine —

Unless it wasn't.

Unless she looked at me differently.

Unless I wasn't the person she thought I was.

Unless it was inappropriate, or weird, to tell her this.

Unless she already had enough to deal with, and it wasn't fair of me to add more. Unless —

"Would you still love me if I wasn't straight?"

It sounded ridiculous, wasn't how I'd meant the words to come out. "I mean... I mean, if I liked a girl... would that be... it wouldn't change anything..." The warmth in my face drowned me out.

"Oh, honey." She rose to her feet, embraced me tightly. "Of course it's okay." My breath rattled in my chest. "I love you. Nothing could change that."

Tears prickled my eyes. "I'm sorry."

She said firmly, "Don't be sorry. Don't ever be sorry for being you."

She rose, poured us both another cup of tea as I caught my breath. "You like who you like," she said, sitting down across from me. "There's nothing wrong with that. The world needs more love, not less."

I nodded. I took a deep sip of the tea, held it in my mouth. Its taste of flowers. This feeling of being safe — depleted, but safe.

It was okay. Everything was okay.

My mom told me, again, the story of how she and my dad had met. How he had been a teacher at a school where she had been a janitor. How his siblings didn't want him to marry her — a girl with no money, no education, who barely spoke English. But he loved her, and she loved him. So he struggled to learn Japanese, and she did her best to wrap her tongue around English, and together they made their own language and made a home within each other.

I know how the story ends. How he dies of pneumonia shortly after I'm born, how we are were left alone in a new country. How she becomes ill, and there's no cure, not in the end. But for now, for a moment, we had everything we needed. I loved her. I love her. 

I know how it ends, but that doesn't make that love less real. It doesn't negate that happiness.

Our pizza arrived and we ate it together.

**-/-/-**

**Akito**

As Yuki spoke, sensations moved through me that I didn't understand. The trees looked too bright, artificial as they pierced the snow into the cold sunlight. I'd eaten in the morning and felt as though I might vomit.

I tried to rationalize my discomfort — that his plan was self-important, narcissistic, likely to jeopardize our records without actually changing anything. That anything a group of teenagers has to say can't possibly be as important as he thinks it is.

But that wasn't what I really thought. Really, I was upset that no one had told me earlier. That my supposed friends had been going behind my back, day after day, to work on this project.

What else could they be keeping from me? My skin felt full of boiling water.

The plan was foolish, ridiculous. Why would I even want to be included?

Rin, Yuki... their group had been working on this all year. Because they're friends, and they trust each other.

I'm not in their group. They've been being polite to me, and I misinterpreted it. Made it into more, into what I needed, because I am hungry and hollow and deluded enough to think that moving here would change anything.

They're not my friends.

Have I _ever_ had friends?

Tohru took my hand, and I knew I had to shut down rather than explode. That I couldn't show this side in front of her, that she'd leave. But I also knew she'd realize, eventually, that something was wrong with me. Realize like the others must have seen from the start. I knew she would leave, and as we stood in the snow with my hand shaking in hers, I was only postponing the inevitable.

I bit the inside of my mouth until it felt bloody. At the end of the day, when we kissed goodbye, I hoped she couldn't taste it.

I didn't wait for Jazzy after school. I walked home alone, threw my jacket on the floor and paced between the living room and kitchen as sun set and the apartment grew darker and colder. Now, in the weird refrigerator light, I stare at ingredients without any idea what to do with them. Why should I deal with the exhaustion of sustaining myself when I don't even want to exist?

_I ate this morning,_ I think, feeling filthy, corrupted. Then guilty for feeling that guilt. _Stop being so melodramatic,_ I think, between mental images of bony spines and emaciated ribcages. Not a desire for beauty so much as physical evidence of the pain I deserve, external proof of internal malfunction. I want to starve myself out.

I pace the living room, pulse with the fear that I'll break down, burst, relapse and ruin my life. But at the same time, I'm worried I won't. That this is all overreaction, attention seeking, immaturity. How can I confirm my feelings are real if I don't create evidence? Like That Woman said — I've always been too dramatic, too needy, too sad and angry and broken, too _me._ Faking my emotions for attention, trying to be special. It's how she'd act, too, the thing I hated about her — her whole life open to possibilities, and choosing to wallow in hate instead, lock herself in a dark bedroom and stubbornly refuse to be happy.

I don't want to be her.

But if I am like her, I deserve to be hurt. Before I hurt someone else.

I want to get better.

I deserve to get sicker.

I can't live in this in-between space.

I feel like a negation. The absence of a person.

How could anyone love an absence?

I want to vomit. I want to run until my knees splinter. I want to go to bed without dinner and feel stomach acid eat me away. I want to sharpen my bones on this hate.

The refrigerator's cold light pours over my burning skin. My chest feels like it's filling up with water. I need to get out of myself. My body is a too-small container, suffocating me. I need to move.

Fingers frantic, I pick up my camera. My arm wants to throw it against the wall — I imagine the crash, the blossom of black shards, so vividly that I'm sure I've done it. But when I look down, it's still in my hands.

I clumsily polish the lens, then walk towards the door. Hesitate, then come back for my jacket. Despite the urge to lie down in the snow and freeze over, to let the shards of ice break my skin and quantify what I feel. Prove it.

I take a scarf and hat as well. Warm wool that Hatori bought me. A gift I don't deserve. But a gift nonetheless. I lock the door behind me.

I make a deal with myself — if I still want to hurt myself in an hour, I can do whatever I want. But for now, I need to do this instead.

My hot breath freezes pearls into the air, shimmers up between black branches. I walk to the rhythm of my rage, thoughts slowly quieting under the crunching of my boots. Flashing images of bony skin, flashing sounds of my friends' mocking laughter... block by block, they're replaced by empty branches, the sound of snow falling on snow. The blood in my mouth fades into the taste of icy wind.

I find the place Tohru and I walked together that first time, the road between her house and mine. How even in our awkward conversation, her laugh was warm, fell as naturally as water over stones. It woke me up; made me see how the light caught in the last blades of grass, how the mirrored buildings melt into sky. Retracing my steps, it isn't the same scene. But the ice glitters in the trees' frozen explosions of black neurons. The moon hangs thin and precarious beside the Calgary tower.

I look up to the sound of wingbeats, in time to see a sparrow land on a branch of red berries. The branch sways, casting a blue shadow across the snow.  


It's strange; even when I wish I didn't exist, I can find things to take pictures of. Images to hold onto. Things I want to share.

For the first time, I use my secondhand camera. Try to make a record of the sparrow's shining eye, the red berries on the bloodless white horizon, the buildings dissipating into darkening blue. The cold creeps into my body, pushing out the furious heat. I wrap my jacket around me, pull tighter at the hat gifted by Hatori.

I take seventeen photos. By the time I walk home, I can't believe how tired I am. Stars have begun to puncture the sky. My legs feel weak, but I'm no longer trembling.

I hang up my hat and jacket. On a notepad, I begin to plan my Christmas gift to Tohru. I make a small dinner out of toast and soup from a can. Then, exhausted, I go to bed, thinking, I did it. I made it through another day.

It's not a victory I would brag about to anyone else. But for the moment, I am more than an absence, and I am proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this latest chapter, and thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos on the story so far! I'm still struggling with mental health issues so this chapter took me a while to write, but your encouragement has kept me coming back to this project. Thank you, and as always, any feedback, critique, or support is highly appreciated. Hope everyone is doing well.


	13. XIII: Four Simple Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tohru goes to see S's band perform and the relationship between the two deepens. Akito struggles with traumatic memories of Ren and with recovering from disordered eating. Akito and Tohru talk about their futures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a song by Frank Turner. The words are, "I want to dance."
> 
> This chapter is for the beautiful and brilliant Samantha. Thank you for all your editing help, your unflagging love and support, your beautiful singing, and the delicious pancakes. I love you more than one million pizzas.
> 
> Thank you also to everyone who reads and interacts with this story. Your support means so much to me.

**Tohru**

A burst of cold air struck my face as I stepped off the train onto the platform. I fumbled with the zipper of my borrowed hoodie, straightened my leggings and my best black dress, and walked towards our agreed meeting place. 

Center Street scrambled with Saturday night crowds, alcohol bubbling on their laughter. Snow cluttered my glasses with droplets, sparkling red and green in the traffic lights against the glassy black sky. 

As I drew nearer to the heat of the ventilation grates, I recognized the tinny heartbeat of bass through her headphones. I knew it was her — S standing on the vent, cradled in sound, the dark cloud of her curls floating above her in the updraft. 

"I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

"Tohru? Hey!" She clicked off the music and rushed towards me. “No worries, I’ve been hyped up all day and got here like twenty minutes early.” She laughed, put her arms around me, pulled me into her aura of cardamom and body heat, and kissed me on the cheek. Before I could coordinate my senses enough to kiss her back, she’d already moved away, taking my hand so we could guide each other to the club. The warmth on my cheek lingered, trembling like a wing. 

It was just S and I tonight. Ritsu was anxious around loud noises and this wasn’t his kind of music, and Daniel had stayed up late studying and wasn’t feeling well. “I think I just need to chill for a bit,” he’d said. “I’m doing better on the new meds, but crowds still make me paranoid. Tell S I wish I could be there.”

“I can stay in with you,” I’d said. “If you’re not feeling well —“

“It’s chill,” he said. “I’m all safe. Ritsu’s gonna show me _Velvet Goldmine_ and we’re ordering Thai. Go! Have twice as much fun on my behalf.” 

After three months of our friendship, I could make out the slight inflections in his monotone voice. I heard the exhaustion in it, but also the smile. He was safe. 

We embraced and he gave me a bear hug, lifting me into the air as I laughed. “Besides," he said as he set me down, "I know it will mean the world to S to have you there.” 

It was true. S had been talking about AltFest for months, excitement vibrating in her voice. Daniel knew what was best for himself, and I didn’t want my concern to come off as patronizing. And, truth be told, being there with S also meant the world to me. 

When I’d first heard S’s band, I was overwhelmed. The music shook the grimy air of her garage, nothing like what she’d played at my house. Instead of the nuance of Chopin’s “Raindrops,” this music crashed down in unceasing waves, loud enough to make my ears ache. My heart rattled with the bullets of drumbeats. 

But, as I listened, I found her in the noise. The melody of her keyboard threaded the air, wove sense through the clamour. The speed and volume... they were intense, but they weren’t violent. The noise wasn’t random or meaningless – it was music, patterns. The underwater shadows of Chopin’s bass clef, the hope and melancholy when high and low notes moved against each other – it was here, too. Everything was here. The soundscape unfurled under S’s hands. I trained my ear to find and follow her. 

I related to the music. I hadn’t expected to — all my life I’d been told I was too quiet, too passive, unable to stand up for myself. But S’s music took the chaos of life — the conflict and uncertainty and bravery and stress — and shaped it into something that made sense. Intensity became fuel rather than fear. It was a music of survival. The aggression wasn't about hurting others — it was about finding strength in ourselves. About being in this together. S played it unflinchingly. 

Like most things about her, I liked that. 

We walked. She swung her hand in mine, as though we were dancing or skipping. I felt the crinkle in my cheeks as my lips curved into a smile. "You're happy today," I said.

"Oh yeah, I'm pumped. We've been working for months on the set, and yesterday, at the last moment, it finally clicked."

"Is that why you weren't at school yesterday?"

"Do I need a reason to not be at school?" She laughed, though I didn’t. "But mostly, yeah. We got the whole group together to practice and it was heaven. Like... hours and hours of painstaking tweaks, getting every note just right, and suddenly everything just... worked. We got it."

I squeezed her hand. “You got it.”

"Plus, we’ll get the spiritual satisfaction of kicking everyone’s asses tonight.”

“I never doubted that,” I said. She rarely showed this side of herself — silly and earnest, her defenses let down — and I was grateful to be around when she did. She didn’t say anything for the next few blocks, but I felt the bounce in her steps. 

We bobbed through the wash of traffic sounds and evening conversation. Families laughed as they spilled out of Chinatown restaurants, the air rinsed in language. Kids’ shoes squeaked on the pavement and chimes ornamented the wind with every swing of doors. The smell of ginger and bell peppers wafted from passing stores, then sweet and salty bread-smells as we turned the corner at the bakery. 

Sometimes, there was nowhere else I would rather live than Calgary. Flecks of snow turned to water on my face, but I was warm with S’s hand in mine. The traffic light clicked its mechanical bird and we crossed the street. Behind the engine of the wind, the thump of bass pulsed stronger and stronger, a heart pulling us towards it. My boots and S’s cane tapped the asphalt and ice as we plunged deeper down the dark streets, away from downtown’s lights and into the sound.

“Think I’m death metal enough to fit in?” I said, as we drew closer, drumbeats breaking the winter air.

She moved her hand down the sensitive skin of my wrist, touched the studded bracelet. “Yeah, you’re poky. That’s pretty metal. Are you wearing black?” 

“I may have stolen the hoodie you forgot at my place.” 

“Excellent. And if anyone asks your name, say something like… Darkness Raventhorn.”

“Isn’t that more goth than metal?”

“Shit. I’ve taught you too well.”

“Darkness Raventhorn.” I turned it over in my mouth, tasting her joke, my new identity if only for the night. It tanged with confidence and deep blackberry cool. Crimson and impulse. 

She was ridiculous, but in my black dress and the purple night, Darkness Raventhorn felt more real than Tohru Honda. 

S added, “Hobbies include long walks on the beach and drinking human blood. And flower arranging.” 

“But only the most evil of flowers.” 

“Well, obviously.”

She leaned into me, the cinnamon softness of her hair brushing my cheek. "But seriously, you'll fit in fine. Everyone does." 

Her hand in mine, and our shapes in the night, I already felt like I’d fallen perfectly into place.

When we got to Kingsley's, the black and grey sky smudged into the green light pouring from the sign above our heads. Outside the building, the throb of guitars mixed with profanity-saturated but good-natured shouting. People smelling of sweat and cigarettes streamed around us, the tough skin of their leather jackets bumping against my movements. We slid into the current of bodies.

"ID?" said a voice like strong coffee, blocking our path. 

My breath froze. "I, um —"

"She's with me." S put her arm around my shoulders. The brick of anxiety in my chest dissolved, or at least crumbled a bit. "I'm in Poisonfox."

" _Oh._ You ladies go ahead. You, uh, need any assistance?" 

"We're fine," said S, with what was either rock star swagger or just regular irritation.

The figure stepped aside and we walked through into the smell of beer and fried food. Shadows dragged equipment across the stage while hard rock rattled in the speakers. My hands and legs stiffened. The room felt as hot and claustrophobic as the inside of a mouth. I'd never been anywhere like this before. I was pretty sure I wasn't allowed to be here. S was seventeen. I was fifteen. And I didn't know how to behave. 

“Hey, Tohru!” I startled as someone touched my shoulder. 

"Give her some warning, Zeke," snapped S. Turning, I came face to face with a young black man. S's brother, Ezekiel.

"Sorry, Tohru." he said sheepishly. "Everything good? You seem tense, Solange." A slight French accent tingled around each vowel. 

"I’m fine. And it’s just S," said S.

"Right, sorry." Zeke loosened his body in a shrug. "Come on, I’m getting you a beer.” 

“That’s your solution to everything.” 

“Because it is the solution to everything. Now come on, before I revoke my generosity. Hey Tohru, want anything?” 

“Just some water, thanks. S and I were going to split some nachos.” 

“Sweet. Let’s make it a large and I'll join in.” 

“You’re crashing our date?” said S. 

“Of course. It has food.” The slap of hand on shirt. “Ouch! Careful, or the nachos are going to be all for me.”

As S and I found seats at the table with her band mates, her words rang in my mind. _She called it a date._ But that was the type of joke she would make, in a mood like this. Her fingers danced a gentle rainstorm on the back of my hand and I hoped she wouldn't notice how sweaty my fingers were. 

We sat down and S chatted with the other band members — I thought their names were Renee and Katie, but I wasn’t sure — while I tried to keep my smile from twitching. As they discussed bands I’d never heard of and made inside jokes I didn’t understand, my mind ran in circles. What if S realized I didn’t belong here? That I wasn’t cool or tough like her?

Zeke sat next to me with a loud, “Ah.” He set a glass in front of me, another clunking down by S. “Drink up. No one likes a jittery keyboardist.” 

“No one wants a drunk keyboardist, either.” 

“So pace yourself. Learn from my fatal flaws.”

"Don't get wasted and try to pee on the bus again, Zeke," said one of the girls, making the others laugh. 

"Hey, that was one time!" He took a gulp and grumbled into his drink, "Not like it's a habit..."

I clung to the cold solidity of my glass. Strangers jumbled around us and bright lights flitted off the corners of my vision. Beside me sat S, Zeke on my other side, their cool friends across the table. I'll feel better once I have some food, I told myself. But I had a feeling that wouldn't stop the shaking in my hands. 

Suddenly, the speakers went silent. Conversation stopped. 

A power chord rang through the room. I slid in my earplugs; though S didn’t seem to worry about hearing loss, I did. The next chord still came through clear, as well as the ladder of rapid notes that followed. The guitarist maneuvered through a complicated riff, high notes slicing the air just as the bass started up. The crowd beat like a heart.

A synthesizer draped its tones across the room, deepening the trance. A voice like gravel and wind alternately soared at the edges and plunged in, making the room vibrate. The surreal soundscape of Headache Glitch.

Headache Glitch commanded the room. I couldn't make out any of their words. The singer drew the syllables into abstract art, or ground them into grunts. I didn’t like all of their songs. One had a shrieking chorus that stabbed in my head like the point of a wisdom tooth, though it was fitting considering their band name. But I thought I could understand the appeal of the music — the solidity, how the extremes of high and low notes made you feel them all through your body, made you aware of the space you filled with yourself. 

“Thanks everyone,” said the singer, after the underground thrum of a slower, final song had drawn to a close. His speaking voice shocked me with how gentle it was. It reminded me of me. 

As he introduced his band mates, S and her band shuffled from their chairs to go set up. I rose and gave her a hug. “You’ll be awesome.” 

“Thanks,” she said, with a shaky chuckle. “I hope so.” 

I kissed her on the cheek, closer to her lips than I'd meant to. Or maybe I did mean to.

For a moment she didn't react. Then I felt her smile. 

The faint taste of beer lingered in my mouth. She walked into the dark.

**-/-/-**

After several trembling minutes, the deep tones of Renee's cello filled the air. The crowd quieted to absorb the sound. Moments later, Zeke began tapping the drums, a spiny tingle buzzing my teeth. 

Poisonfox was different than any other band. Renee stroked the velvet notes from her electric cello while Katie's voice eased between a rich soprano and deep, layered earth, moving the sound through her body and into the crowd. I knew she wasn't, but it felt like she was singing to me. Her voice enveloped me completely, inserted her emotions directly under my skin. I shivered. 

If not for S, I would have been entirely overwhelmed. Her keyboard twisted up through the weight of the words, the density of the cello’s smooth syrup, and kept the song in motion. Velvet and static, gravel and flood, all held together by the delicate, dexterous threads of S's counterpoint. 

As the music twisted and plunged, the crowd pulsated in response, arms pumping in the red-blue-green-black lights, ripples in dark neon water. And just when the waves were about the drag us under, S would rise to the surface, again and again. Her notes rich and bright. Guiding us back. 

All my worry about not fitting in, about exposing my out-of-place-ness, dissolved. Because tonight, I wasn't Tohru Honda. I was part of this. 

S’s notes whipped and rang through the storm, bright needles of noise. The influence of her classical training came through in the complex chord progressions, the intricate dance between treble and bass. As the song slowed, I felt the deeper tones like I'd heard in “Raindrop Prelude,” notes of thunder and fog-chilled wind.

She darted into sparks, droplets above the guttural rumble. Cymbals shattered ever few bars, then — wait. Katie's voice shed its hard edge, grew bare and wind-raw. I couldn't make out the words, and yet... I felt so close to what she was expressing. And what Renee expressed, shivers of vibrato on the air like longing. The I'm here of Zeke's drums, and S's... everything. On stage she was so fully herself, the keyboard an extension of her body, a dance. She moved with no fear or defenses. Her notes fell around me, thread by thread, sad and strange and brave and continuing through me long after the speakers went quiet. 

A cheer poured over the floor and I rose, clapping. “That was awesome, S! Great job, Zeke!” I knew they couldn't hear, that I was just one of the voices shouting in approval, but I couldn't keep silent. 

Poisonfox played four more songs, three angry and one sad, though I could only decipher a few words. As the instruments wound down and the static of cheering faded for the last time, Katie thanked the audience and introduced the band members. When she got to, “…and on keyboard, we’ve got S Tamsi!” I couldn’t help thinking she got the loudest cheers. Though it may have been my own voice I was hearing. 

As the cheers cleared, prerecorded music returned to the speakers and the band shuffled back to their seats. S brushed my arm as she sat down beside me, and I embraced her. 

"You were fantastic!" I said, pulling her close in my arms. She leaned into me, surprisingly submissive. She must have been exhausted; her skin was hot and slightly damp, her breathing deep. I felt the air fill up her body, empty her. 

“Thank you,” said S, her voice softer than usual. 

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just... I'm taking it in." She pressed closer to me, left a slow, gentle kiss next to my ear. "I don't know if I've ever been this happy before." I felt her smile against my cheek. “I’m really glad you liked it.” 

My hand drifted down to hers, wove her fingers in mine. “Of course I did. I like everything you do.” 

The others at the table were chatting about parties, new albums, and either a pet or younger sibling that had chewed up a vintage Slayer poster. S laughed along but was otherwise quiet. 

Drums rolled over the crowd as Shrewd Disguise took the stage. "Oh man," said S, perking up again. "I don't think I can stay still. Want to go dance?"

"Is it... safe?" When we first made our way to our table, I'd seen people crashing into each other. First I thought these were accidents, with the room so crowded. Then I worried they were fights. It took several minutes to realize this was how people danced here. 

She touched my face, stroked her thumb across my cheek. Her touch raised a stream of sparks under my skin. "I'll keep you safe," she said. She stood, my hand in hers, and I let her lead me. 

Together we walked towards the stage, into the hailstorm of drumbeats. They fell over us, hard but painless, and we pulsed, swinging our arms back and forth, then drawing close to bump against each other. It was strange and exciting, made us both laugh. S was gentle, more gentle than necessary; I let myself push against her a little harder, let her know I wasn't made of glass. Tried to show her it was okay to touch me. Here, music coursing through us, being in a body felt suddenly easy. 

As I heard familiar voices in the blur of bodies around us, I realized the rest of Poisonfox had followed us, gathered around in a circle of safety at the edge of the mosh pit. We could move freely here. I didn't have to worry about bumping into anyone, because everyone was bumping into everyone. I didn't have to worry about falling, because I'd be caught. 

I don't know who kissed who first. I don't know if it was on purpose, or if one of us tripped. But suddenly she was touching me, and I was touching her. Hands running up spines, up the back of her neck. Tangled in each other. 

As the kiss ended, I felt her smile against my own. 

**-/-/-**

**Akito**

On holidays, my mother dressed me for the family gathering. I cried and struggled as she stuffed me into a dress, my small fists flailing hopelessly. But I never yelled too loudly — _If you scream, they’ll take you away,_ That Woman told me. _They’ll put you somewhere much worse. No one will love you there._

If this was love, I didn’t particularly want it. But I was afraid of things being worse, of the hostile outside world That Woman insisted was always conspiring to hurt us. I bit down on my lip, swallowed my hot tears. 

"Your father wouldn't want you to be bad. What do you think he feels, looking down from heaven, watching you torment me?"

The dress was red and frilled, made me look like a fat strawberry. At ten years old I already felt myself taking up too much space. I was a head taller than my classmates, my dark, sullen face hanging like a shadow over every class portrait. The camera didn't capture my skin tone well, stripped me down to a pair of glaring bad-kid eyes. I answered too many questions in class, afraid of the silence when teachers waited for answers, while my classmates snickered. But at recess I was silent, hiding in my too-big body while they asked me about favourite games and television shows. I didn't have answers, so I scowled, certain they were making fun of me. 

_Are you a boy or a girl?_ When I visualized myself I didn't see either — just a monster, a punch line, a bulldog in a stringy black wig. I stopped packing a lunch, made myself speak less in school. But there was still just too much of me. 

My mom — That Woman — wrenched my arm through one of the dress's openings, twisting my elbow in a way that made me shriek. "Shut up!" she said, taking my shoulders. My body felt like a puppet in her hands. "Do you realize what a baby you're being? Every other child your age can dress herself, and here I am being nice enough to help you, and you throw it in my face!" She took a deep breath, smiled. "You are not a nice girl." The roughness of her hands betrayed the false calm in her words as she chattered to herself, the zipper catching the skin of my back. "Not a nice girl at all."

The dress would show the pockets of fat by my armpits, the little black hairs on my legs. At the family gathering, everyone would see me for what I was. Hatori would see me. 

I felt the bad feeling swelling in my chest and stomach, building up to explode. It was a feeling like being about to throw up. Or like I'd swallowed an entire wild animal, something struggling and clawed, and if I didn't let it out, didn't let myself scream and cry and scratch myself, it was going to slice me apart from the inside. My heart felt like someone had put their hand in my chest and was squeezing it, making the muscle open and close in weird, cramped ways. 

If I threw up on the dress, That Woman would kill me. It was my Nice Dress. She'd bought it just for me. We didn't have a lot of money because she had to spend it on me. 

I forced myself to breathe past the tears, ignore the heart attack feeling. It was just my body, after all. _She doesn't know I'm having a heart attack. She can't get mad at me for it._ It was secret, so it didn't matter. None of it mattered. It was only inside me, so it wasn't real. 

"Arm. Lift your arm." That Woman's voice made sounds. My brain organized the sounds into words. It was vaguely interesting, or would have been vaguely interesting if it meant anything. She moved my arm. "Akito. Akito!"

She moved my face, made it look into hers. My eyes looked at her. I didn't make the effort to make my face move, to make my expression mean anything. When she moved my arms I neither fought nor helped her. I wasn't there. I wasn't anywhere.

"Akito! Akito!" Her face crumpled like paper. "I'm sorry, wake up, I'm so sorry." Her voice was wet with mucous. My body was in her arms and she moved it around, hard and gentle and then hard again. She shook my shoulders, stroked my hair, touched me like something fragile. Her hands were pointy and warm, and this time they didn't have meaning, didn't make me flinch when they touched me, didn't leave a feeling like a trail of grease on the underside of my skin. This time they didn't hurt. 

"Akito, I'm so sorry." She began to cry. She held her neck like something in her spine had broken. Snot dribbled from her nose. "I'm so sorry, Akito."

I watched, fascinated. How could I ever have been afraid of a person like that? She ran her hands through my hair, her drenched face trembling. It was like she really loved me.

I broke away, disgusted. "Let's go," I snapped, putting life back into my limbs, consciousness back into the marble of my eyes. 

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and walked wordlessly from the room. I followed her. 

Neither of us ever talked about that experience. But that was the first time I realized she was afraid of me. That every time she saw me, I was proof that some things were irrevocable. 

**-/-/-**

To my surprise, no one mentions the yearbook again in the final weeks of the winter semester. At our cafeteria table, Yuki sighs over homework assignments while Kyo swears at games on his phone. Tohru and Britt compare pet photos, Jazzy asks our opinions on nail polish and folk punk, and Kureno continues to bring me diet sodas and carry my books out of misguided repentance. Rin and Haru have some kind of fight and go a few days without speaking to each other, but by the end of the week, are back to walking arm-in-arm and kissing each other passionately and publicly. Very publicly. 

I don't have the time or energy to invest in anyone's melodrama. I work on finishing my final projects, studying for provincial exams, and trying to eat like a normal person. My mood and energy levels seem to be evening out, and the dizzy-drowning black spots and spasms in my calves and hands have mostly stopped happening. It's a strange feeling, looking back and realizing how frequent they'd been before, that these weren't sensations everyone dealt with and simply didn't mention. The constant pain and nausea I'd assumed were just part of existing.

I eat breakfast, lunch, dinner. Starches, vegetables, meat. Day after day. 

Some days I hate it, to be honest. Sometimes I come home from school, buy groceries with my heart clunking against my chest, and come back to my apartment and eat family sized bags of junk food while my hands vibrate. I don't know how to get the hunger out of me; I eat well past the point of fullness, unable to remember what fullness feels like. I eat until I'm in pain, and then I keep eating. I eat like it could be taken away from me.

There's no consistency, either. Sometimes I have the $1.50 slice of pizza across the street at lunch break. Two slices even. Other days, I spend the half-hour hyperventilating in a washroom cubicle, convinced that having given into the temptation to eat one of Haru's chips will make me immediately and morbidly obese. Some nights, lying in bed, I'm sure I can feel my body expanding, itching and straining against the seams of my skin. Once, I had rituals to control those feelings, to arrange that sense of dread into motivation for a rigid routine. Now I just have to lie with it, listening to my heart hammer me towards morning. 

"Recovery" implies a sense of stability. Drawing on my current experience, this seems to be bullshit. I've lost my coping mechanism. I have no idea what I'm going to do with my future after high school — can't fully parse that there is a future after high school. That I might live another five years, or ten, or fifty, and I'll have to spend that time with my own body, my own thoughts. It's terrifying. Life looms ahead, large as... well, life. 

But sometimes, I am genuinely happy. When Tohru and I cook together, or when I go to Jazzy's place and we listen to albums. The day I bring my camera to school and take pictures of everyone at our lunch table, just because I can. Sometimes, unspecial, inexplicable moments, like waiting for a late bus, complaining in unison with Rin and Kyo. Or doing the dishes, watching the water run with saffron and tumeric (spices are new to me — this idea that food is supposed to have flavour), the warm flow tumbling over and through my fingertips. For someone who spent most of their life convinced they felt too much, afraid of the intensity of their emotions — it's strange, looking back, to see how numb I'd been.

The semester draws to a close. My friends and I leave our last classes, exuberant and exhausted. We pool our change for ginger chicken and fried rice in Chinatown. A miniature blizzard taps at the window while Haru attempts to read our tealeaves ("Like... a cow, maybe? Or Australia. Definitely one of those things."). Conversation and argument warms the air and the owner, implausibly, likes us, asks about school and brings us free won tons. Chili and ginger fill my mouth, and Tohru talks about the film program at our local university. For a moment I feel like I have everything I need. 

Out the window, winter sweeps over the city, deepening the dark. 

**-/-/-**

"Hello, Akito. Please come in." Tohru's grandpa opens the door and shuffles his small form out of the way so I can come inside. Tohru runs down the stairs, followed by the clamour of Chella's paws, and pulls me into a hug. 

"Thanks for coming," she says. 

"Yes, my visits are so infrequent," I say, and she laughs. We've spent the past two weeks together studying for finals. Actually, not euphemistically, studying. Tohru is determined to go to university, and helping her study is a social script I can follow. Besides, rote memorization is a welcome distraction from trying to figure out my own future.

But yesterday, we finished our last exam — one half of twelfth grade officially completed. Today, winter break begins. 

"You know what I mean," says Tohru, taking my hand. "Today is different." 

"I'll let you kids be," her grandfather says. "Help yourself to soba and potato cakes, Akito. There's more than enough." 

I thank him and he smiles back, then descends the stairs to the basement where he watches hockey. Holding Tohru close, I say, "So, does he know? About us?"

"Yes," she says. She looks at her socks, fiddles with a strand of her hair. "Well, we haven't talked about you directly — except that you go to my school, and that he likes you. But he knows we're together. He doesn't really like talking about relationships. But he wants me to be happy." She touches my cheek, smiles. "And I am happy."

She kisses me deeply and I lean in, warmth spreading through my body. I run my hand up her spine, stroke the silk of her hair. The soft heat at the back of her neck. 

Her hand moves down my back, grazes under my hoodie against the skin of my hip. I flinch. She breaks off the kiss, looks into me. There's pain in her eyes and I know I put it there. 

"Sorry," I say, looking away. 

"No," she says. "You have nothing to be sorry for. I don't want to do anything that doesn't make you feel good." 

_I'm sorry,_ I want to say again. _I love you,_ I want to say. But neither of those are the proper response, so I say nothing. 

"Do you... want to go make the onigiri now?" she says.

"Right," I say. "We have to stay on task." 

"Right," she nods seriously. "Want to hold hands?"

"I'd love to," I say, and she leads me to the kitchen, her fingers woven with mine. 

We prepare the riceballs, fill them with chickpeas, vegetables, fish. Her hands move in practiced motions, shaping the rice. The party isn't until next week, but Tohru suggested we make a practice round of snacks before the real event, make sure we know the recipes. I mimic her movements, clumsily imitate the rhythm she knows so well. Chella curls at the edge of the room, watching us with bead-black eyes. 

Soon things are back to normal between us, and we're sticky with rice, laughing at nothing in particular. Breathing becomes automatic again. 

**-/-/-**

"Tell me something you've never told anyone." 

We're lying on our backs on Tohru's bed, playing a game we sometimes play. I look inside myself for an answer.

"Okay. I think this is my first memory, though I'm not positive. I either case, I'm very young, I'm waking up in my crib, and no one else is awake yet. I call for my dad but no one comes. It's morning. Light's coming through the spaces in the curtains, making gold lines on the wall. 

"Somehow, I find a way to climb out of the crib, and I walk down the hallway. Everything feels kind of quiet and secret. There are little sparks of sunlight in the carpet, and there's birdsong echoing in the vents. 

"I go into the kitchen and crawl onto the counter where there's this loaf of bread in a plastic bag. I open it very carefully — it seems important not to rip the plastic — and take a piece of bread out. I take this one, plain piece of white bread, and I sit at a chair and eat it while the sun comes up. I can see the sky turning from grey into pink. 

"I have no idea what happened after that. It's just that one moment — the texture of the bread in my mouth, how it kind of melts on my tongue and gets sweeter. I don't even remember thinking anything in particular, except for this feeling of being really... _there._ I think it might have been the first time I realized I existed, instead of just being, you know, a sort of extension of the people around me. If that makes any sense." 

I realize how long I've been talking. "So, as you can see, I live a riveting lifestyle. My idea of absolute freedom is sitting at home eating bread."

Rather than laugh, Tohru rolls onto her side, looks me in the eye, and smiles gently. "I think I know what you mean though," she says. She reaches to touch my shoulder, then stops herself. "Is this okay?" 

"Yes," I say. "Can I put my arms around you?"

"I'd like that." We hold each other, side by side like a set of lungs. Her breathing is soft and warm against my collarbone. 

"Tell me a story," I say. 

"Real or fictional?"

"Real. If you want to."

"Okay." She closes her eyes, breathes in and out, then opens them. "Well, when I first moved in here, I was really scared. My aunt never liked my mom. She didn't want my dad to marry someone without an education. So when her kids — my cousins — were around, she didn't let me talk to them. Or she did, but just small talk, and she watched them really closely the whole time. 

"One day the girl I was dating at the time walked me home, and my aunt saw and she got really mad. She cornered me when I came in and said my lifestyle was my own choice, but what if Brody saw, he was just a little kid and I couldn't act that way in front of him. And that this was my grandpa's house — what would he think that he had let me into his home and now I was behaving like this? 

"My grandpa, he was in the living room watching the news at the time, and we didn't think he could hear us. But then the tv clicked off. He walked over and stood in front of me, in front of my aunt, and said, 'Exactly, Kayako. This is my house. And I'm letting you into it. It's not your place to tell Tohru how to behave, or who she can spend her time with. And if you insist on mistreating her, I will not let you in again.'

"He didn't say any of it angrily. He was just calm. And my aunt never said anything homophobic to me again." 

"Wow," I say. "Your grandpa's a pretty tough guy."

"Yes." She pauses. "He was in an internment camp as a kid. He doesn't really talk about it. But he doesn't tolerate intolerance." 

"I'm sure he's very proud of you."

"Thank you." She closes her eyes, opens them. The blue light of the early winter evening moves across her skin. She looks towards the ceiling. "You know... I couldn't imagine my life before I came out. Like... I knew I was supposed to finish school, find a husband, start a family. But when I imagined the future, it was like watching another person. I couldn't feel anything.

"And now..." The corners of her eyes curve into smiles. "It's like I have a choice. Like I can be excited for the future instead of just afraid." 

I close the few centimeters between us and kiss her. "I'm happy for you," I say when we break apart. I know I should say more, and I know I shouldn't say more, and the two forces wrestle inside me like cross tides. 

"What is it?" she says. She touches my shoulder, very gently. 

I take a jagged breath. "You have such a clear idea of what you want. And if I'm not the kind of person you thought I was, the kind of person you want to be with... I don't want to ruin it for you."

She looks me in the eyes with an intensity that seems to burn, but there's no anger in it. "I wouldn't be with you if it wasn't what I wanted. I'm with you because you're the person I want to be with." It's the firmest I've ever heard her voice. 

"I want to be with you too. But other than that, I don't really know who I am or what matters to me."

"You have time to figure it out." She runs her hand through my hair. "I don't think I have things as figured out as you think I do. I don't fully know what I want for the future, either. Just that, whatever I do, I want to mean it."

"You will," I say. 

"You're brave, you know. You moved here, all on your own, because you wanted to be here."

"I don't know if I really had a choice." I tuck my head into her shoulder, inhale her jasmine shampoo. "I just couldn't live the way I was living back home. I had to leave."

"You took a chance on a life that matters to you. That's brave." Her hand strokes a curve of warmth into my cheek. "I'm glad you came here."

"I'm glad I'm here too." I lean into her and feel her body relax into mine. "Can I just hold you for a while?"

I feel her nod against my neck. "I'd like that." 

Her body is warm against mine as the night deepens around us. Through the window, sunset sharpens to gold on the winter branches. 

I look into the face beside mine. The edges of her mouth crinkle as thoughts move through her. She traces her finger around the shell of my ear, like she's drawing me. "You're beautiful," she says. "Is that an okay word to call you?"

"Yes," I say, kissing her. "You're beautiful, too." 

She gives a small smile. The light in her eyes flickers like water. "You're beautiful," she says, again. 

I almost believe her.


	14. XIV: Let's Relate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Tohru's mom's health goes up and down, Tohru's relationship with S runs into conflict. Akito works on Tohru's gift and learns more about Jazzy's history.
> 
> Chapter title comes from a song by Of Montreal.

**Tohru**

Things didn’t change quickly between S and me. 

We still spent most of our time together, only now we'd kiss, and I'd stroke her hand with my thumb as we helped each other navigate the city. We listened to music in her room, took turns sharing our favourite songs. She composed at the keyboard while I wrote scenes of screenplays. After class and on weekends we visited Daniel or Ritsu, found free concerts or clothing exchanges to participate in. I’d never known there was so much going on in the city, or that I could be included in it. When I was around S and her friends, I felt like I'd found my place. When they laughed at things I said or did, it wasn't because they were being mean. I could talk about things I cared about and no one would use that to hurt me. I could be included. I could be myself. 

When I was in primary school, my classmates had bullied me. It took me a long time to call it bullying — no one hit me, or hurt me physically. It was only hiding my books, putting my coat in the trash, taking my boots so I had to run through the snow in my socks. Laughing when I couldn't find things, snickering, "Maybe you just don't _see_ it." It was only joking. How I had the wrong hair, the wrong clothes, the wrong face. How everything about me was inadequate.

When the teasing got to the point of making me cry, my classmates would gather around, pat my back, reassure me they hadn't meant any of it. When I think about it now, I realize they probably didn't want a teacher to come over and to get them in trouble; but at the time I thought they were being nice. At least, nicer than usual. But it was bullying; to be scared to go to school, to have your name always spoken in a mocking tone until you can't hear it without flinching. To be taught that you don't deserve kindness, or friendship, or safety. To be taught that you — not anything you've said or done, but you yourself — are wrong. 

I didn’t exactly know what was wrong with me; if it was because I was blind, or because of how I dressed, how I walked, how I cried so easily. Because I talked too much or not enough, or because I was Japanese, or just because I was there. My mom comforted me after school, sat with me as I cried, let me transfer schools. But things were the same at the next place, and the next.

Gradually, as I got older, my classmates shifted away from tugging my hair, stealing my homework, mimicking my speech. Instead, they ignored me. When I spoke, no one seemed to hear. When I was eleven, I made tallies in my notebook, how many days in a row I went without speaking to people who weren’t my mom. Three. Four. Two. Three. I don’t remember feeling upset about it; I just needed to write it down, make sure I wasn’t imagining.

On the first day of seventh grade, I sat down in the auditorium to hear the opening speech. A girl from my class walked over to me. “Can you move? People want to sit here.” She didn’t say it meanly. She was stating a fact; the people around me didn’t see me as a person. I knew that. It wasn’t a surprise. 

But it hurt. Of course it hurt. 

I don’t think I was unhappy, though. Not in the same way I later saw Kyo unhappy, and S, and Daniel, and Akito. Unhappiness is the wrong word; I mean depression. I wasn’t depressed. I watched movies and wrote in my journal and dreamt up stories. I imagined what my classmates' lives were like outside of school, how they must have been hurt in some way to learn to hurt others like that, or how they were so afraid of being bullied themselves that they would join in on it to avoid becoming targets. It made me feel sad for them, but better about people in general. They weren't monsters. Neither was I. 

I imagined what my future would be like; how I would travel and learn recipes and go to plays and film festivals, maybe even make friends. At school I felt scared and alone. But the rest of the time, I was free.

At the end of the day, my mom would return home exhausted but smiling, and I would feel okay. She cheered me on as I cooked, chatted about her day and asked about mine as the whoosh of water tumbled over her hands and the dishes. She curled beside me on the sofa to watch movies to improve her English or refresh her Japanese or just to keep me company. We went to the museum together when they had free exhibits. On Saturdays I distributed food at the Mustard Seed, and when she had the day off she came and helped too. When I told her about my dreams for the future, she never shrugged them off, never made me feel like they weren’t possible. When I spoke, she always answered. While school made me feel like a ghost, around her I was real. Our lives felt small and good. Like no matter what happened, in the end it would be okay.

Then she got sick. When I heard her diagnosis, my insides felt like a sheet of glass that had fractured. I carried it around, this thing always on the verge of breaking. Tears pressured constantly behind my eyes, and I felt guilty for crying because I knew my mom didn’t want me to feel that way, and I felt guilty when I wasn’t crying because it didn’t feel right not to cry for someone I loved. 

I didn’t know who to talk to; my mom had always been the one I talked to about everything. Hearing how sad I was, when she was already going through so much, would break her heart. So I made myself smile, cook, clean the house, be there for her. I made myself be good. 

There was me and my mom, and we were the world. Then S came along and the world got bigger. 

**-/-/-**

After school, S and I waited for the bus at the top of the hill. The students who smoked got on the bus there, while the non-smokers caught the bus in front of the school. It was the same bus, but the unwritten rule was important. The two groups didn't get along. The smokers saw the clique across the street as sheltered and privileged, entitled kids who only wanted to please authority. The non-smokers treated the students on the hill as mindlessly rebellious, going nowhere, already corrupted. Both cliques accused the other of being conformist.

S stood on smoker’s hill because she smoked, because she carried the tar-scent in her clothes and hair, and because she felt nervous in school, missed assignments and didn’t speak in class, focused on her music instead. Daniel stood with her. He didn’t smoke, but the way his medication slowed him down sparked rumours that he was on drugs. When he missed school due to manic or paranoid episodes, other students assumed he just didn’t care about class. Although teachers knew about his health issues, a few treated him that way as well. 

Ritsu didn't smoke either, but stood on the hill because of how he dressed, because of his anxiety, because teachers treated the teasing he received as his own fault. Because the conservative students reacted with anger, thinking he was trying to offend them, and even the students who cheered him on didn’t really get it, thought he was trying to make a statement, when really he was just trying to exist. He stood on the hill because of his refusal to change, because of his fierce gentleness and anxious stubbornness. 

I stood with them because they were my friends.

**-/-/-**

Winter deepened, turning the earth to stone. Air froze in my nose when I went outside, and every time I looked up the sky had gone black. 

My mom had gotten sicker. It wasn't safe for her to live at home with her immune system so compromised, so she'd gone into hospital while I stayed with my grandpa at his house. My aunt and cousins were often over in the evening, saying how sad it was, how difficult. They talked as though I wasn’t in the room. I spent as much time as possible at S’s place. 

I lay on her bed and S lay beside me. Through the papery walls, S's parents pounded the dough to make fufu, talking and laughing about something I couldn’t hear. Ezeqiel practiced drums in the garage. Everything sounded very far away. I kept feeling like I was looking back on a memory, stuck inside my body’s blunted, half-remembered senses as I recalled something that had already happened, unsure if the details were quite right. But when I tried to bring myself back to the present, this was it.

It was a strange feeling — my chest felt full of rain, like it was falling inside me, quietly, continuously. My limbs were heavy and empty. As usual, I’d phoned my mom that evening after school, answered her questions about friends and classes. She said she was doing well, made her voice smile. But I could hear how tired she was. And I was tired, too. 

S's arms around me felt good, felt like warmth, but nothing more. Nothing felt as good or as bad as it was supposed to. 

I pushed closer towards her body heat. She curled around me, kissed my neck. 

“I love you,” she breathed. 

“I love you too.” I thought I would cry, but I just shook, feeling guilty for not feeling more.

My mom always said that what she most wanted was for me to be happy. S also said that was the most important thing — doing what mattered to you, following your dreams and being true to yourself. But as fear gnawed at my stomach, I didn't feel like I had any self to be true to. The best I could do was force joy into my voice, go through the actions of care even when I couldn't feel, cry in my own bed instead of hers. 

I worried if that what love was — caring about someone enough to reign in your own emptiness so it didn't hurt them. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, for love to be a conscious decision. A series of choices, every day, to try to care. 

And I really did love her. I knew that; I loved how she spoke, how she thought. I loved her sense of humour even when I didn’t understand it. I loved hearing her laugh. How she could focus for hours on perfecting a song, how excited she became when she got it right, how she tried to be modest and hide her excitement but couldn’t, the happiness pouring out of her, into her voice, into how she moved. I loved how she moved. How gentle she was, how careful when she touched me, how genuinely she cared about making me feel good. How genuinely she cared in general. How she was always there for Daniel and Ritsu and Zeke. I loved her toughness, her fierceness, how she would defend, without hesitation, the people she cared for. I loved her fearlessness — no, I loved how, even if she was afraid, it never stopped her. How despite her anxiety, she would push through it in a heartbeat for her friends, for her music. For me.

Even if, some days, I couldn’t feel. 

My mom would get better or she wouldn’t. This was nothing that didn’t happen to people every day.

I could make myself smile. I could go through the motions. I could live my whole life this way.

S held me. I made my arms move, watching from outside myself as I held her back.

**-/-/-**

"Is there any chance she could get better?" asked the school guidance counsellor. Her office smelled of patchouli and Windex. The fluorescent lights flickered, shivering through me as she made notes on a pad.

"No." I shook my head, pushed the hair out of my eyes. It tangled between my fingers, heavy in my hand. I wasn’t sure when I’d last brushed it. "I mean, she might — she _is_ — better than she was. The doctors didn't expect her to... They said it's a miracle she's around now. That it's a gift." My throat closed up. When I could speak again, I said, "She might have a little more time. But it's a little."

"Every day is meaningful," said the counsellor, her voice like sugarwater. I nodded. 

"I know," I choked.

"You seem to be coping well," she said as I bit back tears. I nodded. My head felt like I was controlling it from a distance. My head felt like it was full of liquid. 

My mom had come home from the hospital yesterday, come to stay at my grandpa's place as well. This morning she'd gone back to work, hugged me goodbye. I didn't want to let go. "I love you," I said. She told me she loved me too.

The guidance counsellor touched my shoulder. "It won't always be like this," she said. 

_I know,_ I thought. _That's what I'm afraid of._ But I was too tired to speak anymore.

“I’ll write you in for the same time next week?”

“Yes.” I nodded, the water-feeling in my head shifting heavily with the movement. I wished I could lie down, shut my eyes. Wake up in a world where this was only a dream. “Please. Thank you.”

In the waiting room, I filled out a form evaluating the meeting. Very good, I checkmarked. The care I received was excellent, I circled. The inside of my chest felt strange, as though my body was filled with soggy tissue paper.

Beside me, a boy with flaming orange hair jiggled his foot, impatient or nervous. The bench we sat on shook with the motion.

He must have noticed me looking at him. "Sorry," he muttered. He grabbed his leg and the shaking stopped.

"It's okay. You're Kyo, right?" 

"Yeah. You?"

"Tohru." 

His pencil scratched across a notebook in his lap, the only sound besides the ticking of the clock. "What are you drawing?" I asked. At first I thought he didn't hear me, but after a few more seconds of scratching at the page, he handed me the book. 

"This is really good!" I said, bringing the page close to my glasses. He'd drawn a superhero, long hair and a cape billowing behind him, flying through a backdrop of planets and stars. He’d shaded meticulously: the shine of the hair, starlight, craters on the many moons, the folds of the hero’s karate-looking uniform. "Who is it?"

"Just some guy," said Kyo. The abruptness of his voice made me think that wasn’t the whole story, but I didn’t press.

"He looks kind," I said. "His eyes."

"Thanks," said Kyo as I handed the book back. 

I continued on the questionnaire while he continued to draw. After a moment, he said, "Is that how you knew who I was? The gym thing?"

"No," I said. A few weeks ago, someone had snuck into the gym and graffitied a picture of Spiderman on the ceiling. People said it was Kyo — the boy who sat by himself at lunch, drawing or reading comic books. No one could prove it, though. “I actually remembered you from a few years ago," I said. "We had school together. John Ware junior high. I wasn't there very long, but you seemed nice.”

"Thanks," he said. After a pause, he added, "I wasn't there very long either. I changed schools a few times. But I think I remember you, too. Did we have science together? And English, right?”

"Yes. I, um, I was the one who messed up when we had to build the bridge out of popsicle sticks. I made the one that fell down before they even put the weight on. Everyone laughed at it."

"I remember. But that's actually not what I was thinking of.” He paused. “You remember that poem in English class?”

“Oh.” I felt my face grow hot. “Yes. People laughed about that, too.” 

“No. I mean, I guess, but… I thought it was cool, what you did. We had to read that poem, what was it called —“

_'Snow and Dirty Rain,'_ I thought. _By Richard Siken._ Then, for some reason, I said it. "I think it was called 'Snow and Dirty Rain.'"

He snapped his fingers. "Right. Richard Siken."

"You remembered that?"

"Yeah." He exhaled self-consciously, but spoke anyway. "It was, uh, the first book of poetry I read."

"Me too! That's really cool!" I realized how loudly I'd spoken, how enthusiastically. For a moment, we both froze. Then he smiled. 

"Heh. Wouldn't Miss Collins be proud of us." 

"Poetry is everywhere," I said. That's what the unit had been called. 

He laughed. Then, more seriously, he said, "She got in trouble for it, you know. Letting us borrow her books, even the ones that had, like, drugs or death or other intense topics. Letting us write whatever we wanted for our poetry projects, like swearing, or about domestic violence, and not censoring it." 

"She really believed in us," I said. 

"Yeah. Like, I don't think any of us believed in our potential as much as she did. It was weird. But nice." He added some more shading to his drawing. "So, of course the parent council flipped shit. Apparently the Siken poem was too sexual, but if he'd written it about a woman instead of a man, you know no one would care. Like, Shakespeare's full of dick jokes and we study him." He stretched his arms and back, joints cracking. I wondered how long he'd been sitting here. "It just bugs me. Like, kids were writing about their real lives. The adults acted like if they didn't give us words to describe our experiences, the things we were going through wouldn't be happening."

"I didn't know she got in trouble," I said. "She was brave."

"So were you," said Kyo. "When we read that poem and everyone was doing all those stupid voices, making fun of it. And then you read it, with emotion and everything. It was beautiful."

“Thanks,” I said quietly. “I liked the poem. I wanted to do a good job.”

"You did. At first people were laughing, but by the end they were listening. It meant something to people. At least, it did to me." Almost a mumble, he added, " I thought it was brave, to care about something. To not be afraid of that.”

"I didn't know that," I said. "That people stopped laughing."

"They were listening."

"It's one of my favourite books," I said. "I mean, I don't understand all the metaphors. But I love how he can talk about feeling so hurt and sad and afraid, and out of that he makes a book about trying to connect with people. About trying to stay alive."

"Yeah," says Kyo. "It feels real." 

"I still remember that line," I said. _"'The gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite its abundance.'"_

"It's a good line. I didn't know art was, like, allowed to do that," said Kyo. "To be about how you really felt. About what your life means to you."

"Yes," I said. 

"I don't usually read stuff like that. I like adventure, superheroes. But... I guess it's kind of the same thing. You fight the bad thing and you win. And like, of course it's only temporary, the danger's gonna come back. So you fight that too. And then, when things are okay, even for just a bit, you don't take it for granted." He looked away. "Sorry. I dunno if I'm making sense."

"No. I think I know what you mean."

The bell rang for lunch. The secretary walked over from behind a desk, said to Kyo, "They're not going to be able to meet with you until after the break."

He groaned. "Dammit. Okay."

"You can stay here or come back after lunch."

I handed in my survey. “I should go,” I said. “I’m meeting up with some friends and my girlfriend.”

“Oh yeah," said Kyo. "S, right?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“She's got a reputation. Is she as scary as people say?”

“No,” I said, surprised by how defensive my voice came out. “She’s kind. People are just afraid of what they don’t understand.” 

"Figured," says Kyo. "People are stupid." He resumed scratching at his drawing, and I gathered up my things to go find S.

As I was about to head out the door, I turned back. “Do you want to come have lunch with us?”

He kept scratching at his paper. I wondered if he hadn’t heard me. Then he stood up. “Sure,” he said. “Thanks.”

-/-/-

Though S could focus for hours on perfecting a phrase of music, when she had to study for English class she spent most of the time groaning with her head in her hands. Pausing the book on tape, she'd moan through her fingers, "Why am I doing this, Tohru? Why do I have to remember all these things about strangers’ lives?”

I went up to her at the computer chair and put my arms around her. She went “Ehhnnnngggggggg” into my shoulder as I ran my fingers through her hair. “You’re almost done,” I said. “Just a couple more months and you never have to think about this again.” 

“I have an English requirement for the music degree.” I felt something warm on my shirt and realized she was crying. “I can’t do this. My brain doesn’t work this way.” 

"You don’t have to do the music degree,” I said softly. “There are other programs, other places you could study music. And you said your band was getting offered record deals.”

“I’d have to leave,” she said. “I want to stay here with you.” She sat up. “I have to do this." She stiffened her spine and clicked on the cd. 

A few minutes later, she shoved off her headphones and exhaled a stream of air. “Honestly,” she said, “who cares about this shit?”

My stomach twisted. "I kind of like English.” I said. “I like hearing the stories, and learning about how other people think.” My voice got quieter as I neared the end of the sentence. I reminded myself that my mom had said something similar, that therefore it wasn't a bad opinion. "I like trying to understand what their lives are like." 

"Yeah, I guess. It's just..." she tapped her fingers in a drumbeat on her desk as she looked for words. She no longer sounded so defeated — anger always woke her up. Even if it was a general anger towards the field of literature. "Like, that's why I talk to people, right? I don't need to be stuck up in a dusty room to learn about their lives. Especially if they're not even real."

“I guess you don’t need to…” I admitted. I didn't remind her about my screenplays. That I _was_ the kind of person who liked to shut myself up in a dusty room and write down the conversations of imaginary strangers. 

I’d gotten her a book on tape — _Black Sabbath: Master of Reality_ — for Valentine’s Day. She’d said she liked it. Now I wondered if that was a lie. 

“What about your music?” I said. “Lyrics are like poetry. And that time you described your composition process to me…” I shut my eyes, trying to remember. “You said you’d think of a situation, a narrative, and set it to sound. Translate the flow of emotions into soundscape.”

She thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess that’s true. Though I don’t know if I described it that elegantly.”

She stood up and started walking over to the bed. I still had my arms around her, and I made myself go limp, both of us laughing as she dragged me after her like an oversized backpack. She flopped down on the sheets and I tumbled after her. 

“Everything you do is elegant,” I said, once our laughter had calmed down enough to speak. “Everything either of us do.”

She touched my face. “Is that right.” She brought her lips to mine and kissed me deeply.

“Mm-hm,” I affirmed. As we broke apart, the aftertaste of smoke coated my tongue.

Lately she’d been bragging that she’d quit, which I knew was a lie. I didn’t blame her for smoking — I mean, I didn’t like it. But it was her choice to make, not mine. I was scared of her getting sick, but I’d also felt her in my arms shaking with pre-exam panic, listened to her late night phone calls as she sobbed that she was going to fail school, that she was stupid and her future was hopeless. It wasn’t my place to tell her how to cope.

It was the way she lied that made my stomach sink. The feeling that I didn’t know her. That she didn’t want me too. 

(It was probably the same way she felt when I cried in her bed and said I didn’t know why it was happening. All those times I forced myself to laugh and say, “Guess it’s just a mood swing.”)

S touched my cheek. “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh. It’s stupid, just —“ I trailed off, but she waited for me. “That book I got you for Valentine’s Day. I was wondering if you liked it.”

_“Black Sabbath?_ Yeah, of course. I loved it,” she said. Maybe a little too enthusiastically. 

“Okay. That’s… that’s good.”

“Listen.” She touched my knee. “I’m sorry. School puts me in kind of a shit mood. It’s nothing to do with you. You know that, right?"

I didn't know what to say, so I leaned in to kiss her.

**-/-/-**

Whenever S talked about applying to the music program, I felt strings snapping in my chest. She talked so much about being true to herself, about refusing to compromise who she was and what she wanted. But she was willing to make herself miserable for me.

I cared about her too much to be the cause of her unhappiness. 

**-/-/-**

Or that's what I told myself. I wanted to do the right thing. But between staying or leaving, neither option seemed kind. 

If I could go back, there are a lot of things I would do differently. We weren't right for each other, but the ways we hurt each other weren't right either. 

**-/-/-**

Maybe "hurt each other" isn't the right phrasing. I mean the ways, in trying to protect each other, we ended up hurting ourselves.

**-/-/-**

If I could go back, I still think I would do it again. Even if there's no other way it could have ended.

**-/-/-**

On our sixth month anniversary, S met me in the basement band room after school. I pulled her face to mine and she kissed me deeply, tasting of smoke. 

"I made this for you," I said, taking a bag from my backpack. "The cherry mochi." 

S grinned. "My favourite. You remembered."

"Of course."

"I actually made you something too." 

She sat down at the piano and began to play. The song was pretty, light, tinkling like wind chimes. "That's beautiful," I said when she was done.

"Thanks. You know, I was thinking about what reminded me. About music being like a story. It made me remember me how good it felt to compose. So I wrote you this."

Warmth filled my chest, and my eyes prickled. She did this for me. "It's really lovely. What's the story behind it?"

"Can't you tell?" she said, a smile in her voice. 

"No," I said, feeling dumb. Like she was laughing at me for missing some obvious reference. 

"It's about you," she said. "It's your story." 

"Oh," I said, trying to keep my voice bright, even though my skin had begun to feel shivery. "What... what does it mean?"

She thought for a moment. "It's about this girl. And she's sweet, and kind, and beautiful. Everything inside her is good. Sometimes her life is hard —" her left hand played a slow pulse of low notes — "but she always stays optimistic —" her right hand joined in, dancing. High notes adorned the melody, turned it into something delicate and sparkling. "No matter how bad the world gets, it doesn't change her. She somehow manages to stay innocent and cheerful. She's always there to support everyone around her. No matter what happens, somehow she's so purely _good._ " 

I felt the water rising in my eyes. "Thank you," I said. My vision blurred, but I was careful to regulate my breathing. To keep my voice clear.

I felt how much she loved me. And how much she didn't understand.

“Can I hear it again?” I said, my voice small. 

She began to play. The basement filled with notes as delicate and intricate as spiderwebs. 

"It's beautiful," I said, again. And it was. But it wasn’t me. 

**-/-/-**

I couldn’t stop thinking about the song, about how S had described me. Pure. Innocent. She meant them as compliments. They just… didn’t feel right. Like nothing I’d been through had touched me. I knew I’d been sheltered in a lot of ways; I’d never been bullied as badly as Ritsu, as depressed as Daniel, as anxious as S. But I still hurt.

I wasn’t purely good. I was a clutter of messy and confusing impulses just like everyone else. I knew that. I tried to be kind, but it wasn't because I’d never experienced anything other than kindness. It was because I wanted to live in a world where kindness could exist. 

_The gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite its abundance._

I wasn’t pure. I wasn’t innocent. I wasn’t going to be the person I was before — who I was when I first met S, or who I was before my mom got sick. I didn't even know if I wanted to go back to being that person. 

And regardless of what I wanted, I couldn’t. 

**-/-/-**

It took me two weeks to gather the courage to break up with S. I worried she would cry, and she did. I worried I would cry, and I did. 

"Why?" she asked, her voice broken, standing on the steps outside of school. 

"I just... I think we're too different," I said, and we were. But we were also too much the same. 

"What if we tried harder?" said S.

"I think we have been trying," I said quietly. 

We hugged each other for a long time, then walked home in separate directions.

When I walked in the door, my mom and grandpa were watching a Korean soap opera dubbed into Japanese. "How was school?" she asked. Her teacup filled the room with the scent of jasmine. Under a bandana, her eyes were tired but smiling. Beside her, my grandpa was darning a decades-old sock. The smells of tea and fresh laundry, and the sound of the voices on television, moved around me like warm water. The feeling of home. 

"It was okay," I said. I sat beside her on the sofa, curled into her. "I learned a lot." I would tell her about what happened with S. But right now, I needed to be here. 

As the commercial break came on, I went to the kitchen to start dinner. I sliced vegetables, dusted them with salt, garlic, and olive oil, then put them on to roast. I set a pot of lentils to boil, cut up some bread I’d baked on the weekend. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

Through the window, birds hung their songs on the too-bright air. While I hadn’t been paying attention, winter had softened into spring. Now spring was deepening into summer. The blue sky stung my eyes. I kept looking. 

In the living room, my mom and grandpa were laughing at something on the screen. I should go back, I thought. But I waited. The smell of red pepper filled the room. I turned the vegetables over, waited a bit more. The timer went off and I took them out to cool, then chopped them up and mixed them with the lentils, set them to simmer in a broth. 

As I stirred the soup, the dam inside me broke. Tears soaked my face. The birds outside sung their gentle songs, and for some reason that made it worse. All of this was happening. All of this was real. 

The soup came to a boil. A laugh track rolled on the tv, and I tried to steady my breathing. “Dinner’s ready!” I said. I put the soup in bowls and the bowls on a tray. I wiped the tears from my face, then walked out into the living room to be with my family.

**-/-/-**

**Akito**

Jazzy and I work on gifts together at his place. He x-acto knifes sheets of construction paper to make stencils, then takes them up to the roof with cans of spray paint. He decorates a new skateboard deck for Lynn, a pair of earrings for Haru, some black-and-silver shoes for Rin. For Britt, he refits an old pair of chemistry goggles with silver spikes, sprays the lenses neon green and festoons them with biohazard symbols. 

Meanwhile, I trawl the internet on his computer, looking for songs to transfer onto cd. I've made note of the artists Tohru's mentioned liking — Stars, Kaki King, Antony and the Johnsons, the gentler songs by Elliott Smith — and look through YouTube for similar music — Tender Forever, Sara Lov, Rae Spoon. I find the older, less widely released songs by Metric, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' unplugged acoustic versions of songs. I want to give her something she likes, but that's new to her. 

It's the most exposure I've had to music in years. I throw in Jónsi and Radical Face, not sure whether I'm more excited to share them or to discover them for myself. 

I write lyrics by hand in coloured pens I've borrowed from Jazzy, decorating a booklet of photographs I took of Tohru and our friends. I even appear in some of them myself, something I've never done willingly before. My face beside Tohru's, filling the frame together. My mouth twists in an awkward but sincere smile, the muscles not used to making that shape. 

My heart beats fast as I listen to the music. Blood hums in my fingertips. Mostly, I want to show Tohru how she makes me feel. Affection as room-filling and unashamed as love songs. 

Working on the project, I feel foolish, sentimental. Embarrassing. And excited. It takes me a while to identify the pulsing, vibrating feeling in my body as happiness, rather than anxiety or illness. I _like_ doing this. 

It feels like the sort of thing other people my age do. Like the kind of life I didn't think I was allowed to have.

**-/-/-**

Each time Jazzy asks me to stay for dinner, I weigh the pros and cons. His family doesn't have a lot of money. Sarah and Ty lay out the threadbare tablecloth in a kitchen that barely holds the four of us, acting like it's no trouble as they offer chicken or stir fry or tofu or lasagne. Everything I take is more than my fair share. 

Despite myself, it feels good. That they think I deserve this. That they want to prove, in an objective, physical way, that I matter to them. 

Then I feel bad for feeling good. 

On the other hand, eating with other people helps me in knowing how much to eat. Alone, I'll eat a cup of broccoli for dinner and be shocked when hunger pains wake me in the night. Or I'll binge until I'm in physical pain. Or, without rules, I'll just stare at every food option in the house, think about the infinite options, the unlimited things I can eat or not eat, until I'm so overwhelmed I leave the apartment, go for a walk, and buy a salad or falafel or samosa I can't afford. 

At Jazzy's dinner table, I have a controlled environment. 

But the main factor, both in drawing me in and repelling me, is Jazzy's family. Him, his sister, her boyfriend, and me, all sitting down in the same room. His family who greet each other when one of them comes home, who cook for each other and eat together. I cautiously watch everyone around me, try to figure out the rules for how to behave. It's not like I never ate dinner with my own relatives, but this is different. I was never close to my aunt and uncle — never let them get close, afraid they would reject me. And when Hatori took me out restaurants, that felt like an escape from my life. This _is_ Jazzy's life. He, and Ty, and Sarah probably come home to this every day: kindness and conversation and warm food.

I don't know how to be around a family that's _nice_ to each other. I don't know how to be here, or how to tell them that I don't deserve to be here. My hands tremble. My limbs jerk with anger, at myself for being this way, at That Woman for making me this way, at the world for not doing more to include me, at myself for not letting myself be included. 

I cut the chicken or broccoli into as small pieces as I can, then make myself eat them slowly. I mutter my thanks and help to clear the table. 

And when I get back to my apartment with no decorations and nobody waiting for me, I feel empty, or relieved, or angry, but inevitably very far away. 

I've spent so long being afraid. And now that there's nothing in particular to be afraid of, the fear is still there. There's just nowhere to focus it.

-/-/-

One day, when I go to Jazzy's place to work on the cds, I see a woman I've never met before leaving his apartment. She's middle-aged, with fluffy blond hair and a jittery way of moving. She's even shorter than he is. He's hugging her goodbye. 

"Oh, hello," she says with a nervous laugh as she passes me in the hallway. 

"Um, hi." She disappears down the hall and I say to Jazzy, "Who was that?"

He smooths down his hair, ruffled from the embrace. "Uh, that's my mom." 

"She seems... nice."

"Yeah. She's pretty good." Jazzy lets me in, closes the door behind us, offers to make tea. "I don't really see her much. My dad would kill her if she knew she was here." 

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he says. 

I think, _Not really._

"She comes by every couple weeks, helps us buy groceries. And just to talk and stuff." He pours us tea. I take a sip and it tastes like mint and raspberries. I wonder how many calories are in it. Swat away the thought. 

"That sounds helpful."

"Yeah. It's nice. Kinda weird, but nice." He laughs; it's the same nervous laugh as his mom, but in his voice. "She wasn't this involved in our lives when we actually lived with her. She just sort of, like, shut down. Didn't really talk. But now I guess she wants to do things differently." 

"That's good, isn't it? That she's getting better?"

"Yeah." Jazzy looks into space, then snaps back, nods vigorously. "Yeah, of course. It's good, it's just... a lot. Seeing her."

I nod.

He stares down at his hands. "I kind of hated her for a while. After my dad kicked Sarah out. Like, if you love your kids, you're supposed to protect them, right? But I guess she was scared, too."

"I'm sorry," I say. Again. 

"It's okay. I mean, it's over, right?" He smiles. It looks like he's consciously overriding every muscle in his face. With unconvincing levity, he says, "You know what's fucked-up, though? She really, genuinely does love him. Guess you really can't choose who you love."

"You can choose who you keep in your life, though."

Jazzy nods. "Yeah." He swills his teacup like it's wine, staring into the shifting dregs of tea leaves. "Yeah, that's a good way of saying it." 

He smiles again, this time slightly less painfully. "Anyway, that's my shit. How are things with you?"

"Good," I say. "Things are going well with Tohru. Hatori's visiting this weekend; he's going to drive me up to see my aunt and uncle for the holidays." I pause. "It will be three years since I last talked to my mother."

"Is that a good or a bad thing?"

"It's good, mostly." 

"Then cheers." He raises his teacup. "To your freedom." 

We clink. 

Suddenly, his face lights up. "Hey," he says, "I just realized. You still haven't seen the roof."

He leads me down the hallway through a door, and our footsteps clang as we ascend a dark, rickety stairway. At the top, Jazzy turns the handle of a rust-eaten door. When the door stays closed, he rams his body into it. Finally it gives, creaking on its hinges.

We step out onto the clear, cold air of the roof. There's a barbed wire fence around the edges, rusted chain-link. Behind it, the low winter moon shines in blue-black sky. The wind keens, touching its chill to my face and hands. It isn't exactly a bad feeling. Like a barrier between myself and my surroundings has been stripped away. 

"This is my favourite memory," says Jazzy.

I don't know what he's referring to, but I nod. My eyes follow the moonlight, rippling off the river in the distance, not yet frozen over. The light shines off windows reflected in windows, the sides of buildings polished into infinity mirrors. Off the spikes of barbed wire. Off the glitter under my feet.

_The city was all lit up_

My eyes find words in the twisting calligraphy swirling below me. Red and orange paint with sparkles in it, leading into dark purple waves.

_With multicoloured flames_

The words seem to move, the way they sparkle. Like they're alive. Like waves, or like flames. The purple and blue in the background has designs in it, angular in contrast to the letters. Sidewalks. And buildings. I look up again, then back at the art. It's this city. This view. All these views, different angles of this scene combined in an impossible perspective.

_And we were pacing the icebergs  
Waiting for changes_

"You can see what changed," says Jazzy. "This was a few years ago that Rin and I drew this. There are more buildings now. And some places closed down." He sits, traces his finger over the outline of a skyscraper. "I'm amazed by this paint. I never thought it would last this long."

"Why did you make this?" I say.

_Build lives on the borders_  
Of joy and our pain  
Secretly dancing  
Outside in the rain 

"It's amazing," I add quickly. My eyes follow the luminescence of sunset clouds, shot through with red and gold and orange.. "But how did you get the idea?"

_And I'll never regret this_  
Hard as I know I'll try  
There's so many ways out  
But none are mine 

"It was Rin's idea — well, a combined idea. I was having a rough time when I first moved here; like, I came here to get away from my family, so I could stop being lonely and scared all the time. But I was still pretty damn scared. And lonely — like, even around friends, I just felt fucking lonely all the time. I called up Rin in a panic and told her I felt like there was no place for me.

"And she called me out on it — you know, the way Rin does. She was like, 'If you want there to be a place for you, you have to make it.' So... I did. I got my art supplies out of my backpack and started making this — 'cause I wanted to live in a place where people made things like this. I wanted to be the type of person who made them. Someone who wasn't so fucking afraid of himself. And Rin came over and we worked on it together, and for the first time, I didn't feel alone anymore. Even after she went home and I worked on it by myself I didn't feel... like, abandoned. It was new to me, to be able to tolerate my own thoughts."

I don't know how to respond to him telling me so much about himself. I want to be embarrassed for him, I want to back away. But I'm also... interested. That he's put it into words, that restless pulse. "That's impressive," I say.

He shrugs. "No one really goes up here, so it's stayed safe. I know some parts are sorta wonky, but I did all I could, all the details I could see. I spent a lot of nights up here."

I can see the different nights, the different art styles that went into this. Graffiti and calligraphy and slow earnest sketching. Sunsets and velvet black night pricked with stars. 

"It shows," I say.

"Thanks."

_Burn up at the edges_  
Fade out with the times  
But when it's this dark out  
I feel alive 

"What are the words from?"

"A poem Kureno wrote."

I read them again. I know nothing about poetry, have no idea if it's good or not. But there's feeling in it. I think of Kureno, the boy who barely talks, who waits on me hand and foot because I lost my temper at him. I try to connect him to the person who wrote these words. But my mind won't stop splitting him in two.

"I didn't know he had so much going on inside him," I say. 

"Yeah," says Jazzy. "But then again, everyone does."

"That's true," I say. I'm not sure if I mean it, but I want to.

"Like, that's the kind of thing I want with the yearbook. To show all of us — not just the jocks, and not just the glossy-smiley view of life. That all of us, the too-loud and the too-quiet kids, those of us who get called freaks or whatever, have these whole worlds inside us. That we're real, too."

"It's a great idea," I say. And I'm surprised to realize that, at least in this moment, I mean it.

"So," he says, "are you in?"

"I'm not sure. I don't know if I have that much to say."

"I love hearing what you have to say."

"Thanks. You too." I think about my photographs, about the beauty the person who made the photography book found in the world. _I wanted to live in a place where people made things like this. I wanted to be the type of person who made them._

"I won't promise anything. But I'll do my best," I say. 

"That's all anyone can do." Jazzy's face splits into a grin. "Oh, by the way. Want to stay for dinner?"

"I would love to," I say. 

We look out through the fence, over the city, then walk back down together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos on the last chapter! They were very encouraging and a great help in staying motivated to write this one. I've been busy the last few months finishing up my thesis, but I'm thrilled to be done and to have more time to write again. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this update, and please do not hesitate to let me know what you think!


	15. XV: Not Really Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyo and Shishou discuss Yuki and future plans. Kyo remembers the first time Tohru saw him have a panic attack, and how Tohru reacted when Kyoko died. Akito and Tohru exchange Christmas gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from an album by An Horse. The movie Kyo watches is _The Hours._

**Kyo**

Shishou lunges at me. I try to catch him in a handlock but he anticipates, blocks and comes at me with a sweeping kick. In the split-second I stumble off-balance, he grabs me by the shoulder. The ceiling spins and suddenly I'm on my back, eyes flashing with stars.

Shishou, standing over me, extends his hand. As I rise to my feet, I try to clear my mind before we bow to each other. Thoughts of school, frustration with Yuki, and the weirdness of Akito swarm like flies, coming back each time I swat them away. I try to focus on this moment: Shishou’s white robe blazing in the dojo’s fluorescence, the stars prickling the early-evening sky, the faint gym-scent of disinfectant, the hum of movement in my blood telling me I’m alive. Right here. Right now. 

I bow. “Good match.”

“You too.” He unties and refastens his ponytail, hair loosened by the activity. We begin to tidy up for the day, clearing the mats and equipment we'd used to teach the beginners. It’s quiet now that lessons are over; the lights buzz above our heads and water hisses in the walls of the apartment complex, and my ears still ring with the shouts and laughter of elementary and junior high kids. With school out for winter break, Shishou’s been booked solid. I help out, assisting with some of the lessons before my own training in the evening.

I'm sore in a good way, like I've actually done something. The kids were hyper and fidgety, but they were into it, even if they were disappointed they weren’t allowed to kick each other in the face. But it was cool, seeing these students who started out shy or argumentative or sulky, rolling their eyes or poking each other during beginning meditation, and by the end grinning as they figured out how to slip out of a grip, that satisfaction of getting how the movements sync up. High-fiving us, _Bye Mr. Shishou! Bye Kyo! See you tomorrow!_

Even if I royally fucked up my own sparring, it's been a good day. 

"You did well," Shishou says, setting away the last mat before he leads us up the stairs to his apartment. 

"Thanks," I say, slouching to avoid slamming my head on the low ceiling. "Not really. I was distracted."

"I noticed," he says as he unlocks the door. He turns to look at me. "But you brought your attention back, multiple times, without letting it discourage you. You couldn't have done that a few years ago." 

He looks me in the eyes, his gaze unwavering. "Thanks," I say, looking at the floor, then back at him. "I'm not where I wanna be. But I'm gonna get better."

"I'm sure you will," he says. He turns away, and behind him I grin. Shishou doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean. 

Inside his home, Shishou puts a pot of tea on to boil, then takes a tupperware container of vegetables out of the fridge and pours it into in a frying pan. Scents of curry and coconut milk saturate the air as he stirs in the ingredients. 

He always offers me dinner after work — which would be annoying if anyone else was doing it, like they thought my family was so fucked up we didn’t even have our own food. But with Shishou, it's alright. He never seems like he's taking pity on me. And besides, it's good to just hang out with him and talk.

He sets the teapot and two cups, patterned with a design of intricate blue leafveins, in front of us, sitting down across from me as he waits for the curry to simmer. “How's school going?" He pours a cup of jasmine tea, his posture relaxing as he takes a sip. I've never met anyone else, besides maybe Tohru, who gets so much enjoyment out of such small stuff. And definitely not anyone so obsessed with tea. Wisps of steam float up from the cup, crookedly curling around the stray hairs escaping his ponytail. 

I stretch out my arms above my head. "It's okay. Got an 89 on that test I was worried about."

"Excellent. Well done."

"Thanks. It's been easier since I've been feeling better.”

"I'm glad to hear that. I'm proud of you."

I look away. "I didn't really do anything." Stirring a biscuit in my tea, I watch swirls of dark liquid collect and dissipate. "The shitty — I mean, the empty feeling — it kind of comes and goes.”

“Yes,” he nods, “all emotions do.”

“It’s just —“ I start, then wish I hadn’t. But he’s looking at me, waiting, so I go on. “Like… hard to care about anything sometimes, when it’s all so impermanent. Like I’ll be doing fine, then I wake up the one day and it’s like all the meaning’s dropped out of the world, and everything goes flat and pointless. Just… how do you keep feeling like things matter?”

Shishou is quiet for a moment; but he doesn’t look at me in that school therapist way, that “oh-you’re-fucked-up” way, or like he’s about to feed me a bunch of pseudo-wise “everyone-feels-like-that-sometimes” bullshit. He’s actually thinking about it.

Finally he says, “You were strong during a difficult time. That always matters.” He stirs his tea. “But you’re right — the feeling will come back. Inevitably, there will be days when nothing seems significant. 

“Think of your training. Some days you feel strong; training is easy, and improvement seems to come in great strides. Other days you’re tired, or discouraged, and exercise is simply a chore. But if you’re to get stronger, you have to do it anyway. And eventually, maybe days or weeks or even months later, it will be easier again. You get through the bad days so you can get to the good. All of them matter, though they may not feel like it until later.” 

“Thanks,” I say after a moment. It feels weird to talk about this stuff, like I’m doing something wrong. But it also feels kind of good. Like I’ve poured out these thoughts that have just been stuck stagnant in me, repeating and making me sick, because I don’t have anywhere to hide them except inside myself. But Shishou has seen my most poisonous thoughts, and it’s never made him look at me any different. “Sorry for complaining.” 

"I value your trust. How is your father?"

"The same. He doesn't really acknowledge my existence.”

Shishou serves up the curry on two steaming plates. “I’m sorry,” he says. He looks at me in that way he sometimes does; like he’s acknowledging, recognizing, something inside me, but I’m not sure there’s actually anything there as deep or complicated as whatever he thinks he sees. 

“It’s fine,” I say, shoving a piece of broccoli into my mouth. I swallow. “It’s better this way. Damn, this curry’s amazing.”

Shishou smiles. “Thank you,” he says. “The secret ingredient is leek sauce.”

I freeze, my tea forgotten mid-sip.

His serious expression cracks with a “snrk,” laughter creasing the edges of his eyes.“Of course not,” he says. “I remembered.” 

I involuntarily “pft” into the tea, spilling down my chin. 

When I first met Shishou, back in junior high, I’d go to his lessons after school. They were free, organized through the school system or something, so he mostly got kids whose families didn’t have a lot of money. He always made snacks for his students, probably ‘cause a lot of them didn’t eat properly during the day, and one day the snack was leeks braised in miso. 

He was one of the few adults I’d met who wasn’t an idiot, so I didn’t want to be rude, even though the smell was already making me gag.

He must have seen my look of horror as he set the leek in front of me. “I can make something else,” he said. 

“Oh, uh, no, this looks great.” 

I took a few bites, each one tasting more and more like my soul being murdered. Finally, he turned away and I found a hiding place for the abomination of a vegetable. 

That day, as we were cleaning up after the lesson, I noticed as his eyes lingered on the half-eaten leafy green stealthily incorporated into one of his flower arrangements. 

His gaze shifted to me. I braced to get walloped, or at least yelled at. Or worse, to see his forehead wrinkle with disappointment. 

Instead, he smiled gently. “I’ll make something else next time,” he said, tucking the sad-looking plant into the compost bin, and resumed his cleaning. 

All these years later, he’s never served me leeks again. 

“You said you’ve been distracted,” says Shishou, snapping me back to the present. “Has anything in particular been on your mind?”

I groan. “It’s nothing, really. You know that guy who always beats me in tournaments? Yuki?”

Shishou nods. 

“Well, he’s starting, like, this art project, and asked me to chip in. But we can’t stand each other — he provokes me, and then I explode on him, and I feel like an asshole after it’s all over. So what does he want with me?” I crack my knuckles. “Like, he’s obviously setting me up for something, but I don’t get what.” 

Shishou says, “If he’s cruel to you, you’re fully in the right to avoid him.”

I twist the beads of my bracelet, listen to them click. “He’s not cruel, really.” I pause to think it out. “More like… he rubs me the wrong way.” _AKA pisses me the fuck off. Friggin’ constantly._ I swirl the tea in my cup, a bit too rapidly, splashing on my hand. “He’s this privileged rich kid, everyone likes him — he’s had the high life handed to him on a silver platter. And then he tries to present himself as super alternative, wearing these crazy contact lenses and framing himself like this artsy-fart rebel, when he’s never had to rebel against anything in his life. I’ve never heard him express an opinion, or share anything about himself, or show a shred of original identity — he just dyes his hair and suddenly he’s king of the nonconformists without ever fu— without ever _actually_ doing anything.” Deep breath. Don’t lose it. “It’s like… he’s stolen my identity, and no one else can see how fake it is. He’s trying to be me without any of the consequences, and everyone just buys it, like they think he’s doing a better job of it than I ever did.”

Shishou is quiet for a moment. “Who he is does not change who you are,” he says finally. “No one can take that from you. Perhaps his imitation stems from admiration.”

Right. ‘Cause the guy with the best grades, tons of friends, and endless future opportunities wishes he could be a weird outcast who struggles to get out of bed and loses his shit during social situations. Yeah, no.

“Nah,” I say. “We hate each other.” I take another bite of my curry, spices burning on my tongue. Swallow and say, “His mom’s this nutjob politician. Wants to make everything hell for people who aren’t all super rich like their family.”

"He's not his mother," says Shishou quietly. 

"I know. I _know_ that."

We sit in silence for a moment. Shishou looks at me, his dark eyes steady. “Whatever the case, if he values your artwork, he has very real reason to. I wouldn’t necessarily assume an insidious motive — you have legitimate talent, and the work ethic to do great things with it.”

“Thanks,” I say, stirring around a piece of eggplant. “I sent off that art school portfolio, by the way.”

His face lights up. “That’s wonderful!” His normally serene tone lifts in a wave of enthusiasm. “I’m very proud of you.”

I look away, embarrassed. But for a moment, I feel pretty proud too. 

**-/-/-**

I didn’t really have friends until Tohru. I mean, there were people I hated less than others — by the time high school rolled around I wasn’t getting into fights every other day like I had been in junior high. Mostly I kept to myself, working on art and judo. 

I felt… quieter inside. Not stiller — it was like there was this motor inside me, racing and racing, filling me up with a constant stream of thoughts. But they were foggy, white and wordless sensations that didn’t really attach to anything. I felt… wrong. But it was a low-grade wrong, instead of the blinding rage that used to posses me. 

I didn’t know if that meant I was getting better or worse. I wasn’t as angry as I’d used to be, but maybe that was because I’d been finding it harder to care about anything. I wanted to be happy, but what did that even mean? Was it even a real thing, or just false hope people create to make their shitty lives bearable? 

How do you tell the difference between moving on and giving up? 

I didn’t want to live a life of apathy, but what other kind of life was possible?

There weren’t many models of a future I could look to that seemed particularly enjoyable. Or even tolerable.

There was my dad, expressionless except for a constant aura of disapproval, locking himself in his office and barely speaking to anyone. 

There had been my mom, distracted smile and unfocused eyes, a tremble at the corner of her mouth and thin, dark skin crinkling around her eyes, as though she was somehow both very old and very young. The way she became smaller, piled under blankets and folded into herself, as though she was afraid of air, didn’t want it to touch her. Light hurt her. Sound hurt her. She spoke in headshakes and nods, but those seemed to hurt her, too. When she looked at me, I couldn’t tell if she had any idea who I was. She looked at me like she was afraid. I worried I looked at her the same way. 

I worried I hurt her, too. 

How can there be any kind of sense in a world where a caring person, a _good_ person, ends up totally depleted while barely in her thirties? Why are we supposed to treat life like it’s this miraculous gift, when through some glitch of chemicals everything could go to shit at any moment? The people you care about inevitably get wiped away, and it hurts like hell to care, and it hurts like hell _not_ to care, so really, what’s the point? How does anyone go about this senseless life and not lose their mind, when losing their mind seems like a pretty fucking reasonable reaction? 

Anyway. 

I was trying to do well in school, work on my drawing and judo, even when my insides felt like this empty, snowy field. For Tohru. For Shishou. 

I was trying to be good. 

But sometimes, between the stretches of white, the anger would come back, worse than ever. 

There’s a kind of anger that can be almost fun, that can be competitive and righteous and awakening. This is what I experience when I argue with Yuki. That’s not the kind of anger I’m talking about. 

There’s another kind of anger. It feels like being possessed. Like this _thing_ rising up inside me, bulging and razor-toothed and too big for my skin, like every ugly thought I’ve ever had is going to split me open and spill out for everyone to see. When I feel like this, I don’t feel _human._ It’s like being in a nightmare, except the nightmare is me, buried under the surface of whatever social norms and distractions, but always there, always ready, edging up towards the surface. 

This part of me feels like it should not be allowed to exist. 

This type of anger is special. I only ever feel it towards myself. 

Some days I felt it more than others. That day in grade ten, it started off persistent but manageable. Like, I’d be eating a piece of toast and out of nowhere think how easy it would be to run into traffic, and then I’d get mad at myself for thinking that and would try to shove the thought away, which would make me more stressed and make the thought come back louder, and then I’d get mad at myself for getting mad at myself. Etcetera. Repeat this process at each intersection, each overpass, each stairwell — it was exhausting. It was one of those days where my brain was trying to kill me, and even though it wasn’t trying very hard, I wanted it to shut the hell up. 

I’d been through this before. I’d get through it again. That day, it was raining hard, the sky ugly and cold. My clothes plastered my body in thick, itching sheets and my sneakers squelched through puddles as I walked to school. The day had just started and already I couldn’t wait for it to be over, to lock myself in my room and sleep away as many hours as possible.

Tohru and I met up in the halls before my double English class. She’d brought Chella, her new service dog, and I did my best to focus through the fog in my head as she talked about how helpful Chella had been, and about her plans to have a picnic on the weekend. We were a few weeks into spring, the outdoors slushy and sparkling with new light. The light hurt my eyes and the mud was annoying to walk through, not to mention that I didn’t know how to behave around her friends, Daniel and Ritsu. But she’d just broken up with S, and I wanted to be there for her. She looked happy when she talked about the picnic, and I didn’t want to ruin that. 

I honestly thought I was doing a pretty good job hiding how terrible I felt. But when the bell rang, before she headed off, she said, “Um, Kyo?”

“Yeah?”

“You know… you can talk to me, about anything. You’re my friend, and I want to be there for you. Like you are for me.”

I was thrown; not only that she’d seen through me, but that she considered me someone who was there for her. With all she’d been through with the breakup, and now with her mom being sick, I felt pretty useless. 

But however undeserving I was, I was glad she was my friend. 

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see you at lunch.” 

In English we watched a movie, my foot jiggling under the desk. At first it seemed like an okay film — too slow for something I’d watch for fun, but written well. Kind of sad and philosophical, about these lonely women, and this guy who was dying of AIDS. It was depressing, but it seemed real. Too real. It matched the weather inside my head. 

Onscreen, the dying man sat at the window, waiting to jump. Sparks flickered in front of my eyes; I realized I wasn’t breathing.

“I feel like I’m only staying alive to satisfy you,” he said to his friend.

“That is what we do,” she said. “That is what people do. They stay alive for each other.”

The man leaned back and dropped out of sight. 

Below the desk, my leg jittered faster and faster.

By the time class let out, I was nauseous and shaky, having to consciously move breath in and out of my body. The noise in the cafeteria was physically painful, each jolt of laughter stabbing me in the temple. Breathe. Breathe.

The fog in my head spun in circles. 

I picked up a carton of fries as I got in the lineup, watched them jump around in my rattling hand. My hands looked weird, these alien claws that weren’t really _me._ Everything looked weird — the sharp white paint on the walls, the too-detailed faces of the other students, the cafeteria server smiling at me, his skin tinged green in the bad lighting. The shadows made his face look bruised, or like it was melting. His mouth was moving; there were sounds but I couldn’t match them to meaning, make sense of where they were coming from. I couldn’t make it mean anything. I couldn’t make anything mean anything. 

His mouth moved and I nodded, handed over money. My hand slipped, spilling coins everywhere. _I should pick them up,_ I thought, but the thought felt far away, like it wasn’t even mine. Someone was laughing, the sound echoing and distorted. I had to get out. My body burned with fever, heart bumping weirdly, and I had to get _out._

“Kyo.” Someone brushed up against me and I heard myself shout.

“Sorry!” said Tohru. “I didn’t mean to —“ 

“I have to go,” I said, pushing past the crowd, dropping my food, half-running, half-stumbling, my heart so loud I couldn’t hear past the thud. 

Students were taking out their phones, plastic flashing, filming me. I thought they were laughing but I couldn’t tell; everything burbled as if my ears were full of water. 

I burst through the door, gasped out into the rain, and ran. 

I ran alongside the highway, along red streaks of stop signs and gas station lights, through shattered sheets of droplets. Their cold shocked through me, almost a relief, but never quite deep enough to blot out the boiling in my chest, in my blood. 

I ran badly, without regard for pacing or proper breathing. I just needed to run. Out of my life. Out of myself. 

I’d fucked it all up. 

Past the park and pizza place and Chinese restaurant. Past the elementary school’s primary-coloured equipment, gleaming against the grey sky. Water stiffened my cargo pants and streamed down my hair, mixing with sweat. 

Eventually my legs cramped. I sat down on the curb, held my head in my hands, which were finally too tired to shake.

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.” The whispers of the rain mixed with the sound of my breathing, the occasional hush of a passing car. The world was quiet. It breathed slowly, like a sleeping animal. A layer of mist vibrated over the asphalt, a white glow trembling where raindrops jumped off the earth. 

I felt as empty as the streets, all my energy pumped away into panic and motion. Now there was nothing left inside me. 

All the time I’d put into trying to be normal, to get through school without incident, now it was ruined. People knew who I was. What I was.

It was almost a relief. 

“Kyo... hi.” 

But at the quiet voice, the pain in my chest started up again. Tohru stood a few feet away, looking at me from behind droplet-spattered glasses. Her jacket and skirt were soaked, skin red and breathing ragged. Brown hair draped dripping down her face. Her hands turned Chella’s leash over and over, and she adjusted her weight from foot to foot, as though she wasn’t used to having limbs and didn’t know what to do with them. 

I crushed my face against my hands, shoved the heels of my palms into my eyelids. White lights detonated in my head. “I’m sorry. Fuck. _Dammit._ I’m sorry.”

She’d seen the monster. I’d made one friend, convinced (tricked) one person into thinking I was worth being around. And now she knew what really went on inside me, and she would leave, and it would be for the best for her anyway. It wasn’t fair for me to hold her back. 

Tohru put her hand on my shoulder. 

“Don’t touch me!” My body jerked, and I felt her startle. I pushed my hands harder against my face, sparks flashing in the backs of my eyes. “Sorry, I just — I can’t be touched right now. It’s too much. It’s too much.” 

I made myself inhale and exhale. It felt like I was trying to push sand in and out of my lungs; heavy, grating.

“Okay,” she said. “Is it… okay if I sit here?” 

I couldn’t speak, made my head move up and down in a nod.

Chella came up, sniffed my knee. She sat down between us. I reached out to pet her, then hesitated. “Can I…?”

“Yes,” said Tohru. I ran my hand down Chella’s smooth fur, felt her inflating and deflating. I mean, I guess that’s just called breathing. She snuffled, licked my hand. Her warm brown eyes looked at me. Dogs look at everyone like they’re good. 

I’m more of a cat person, but it felt… I don’t know. This dog had seen me at my craziest, and still trusted me not to hurt her. It felt like that meant something, though I wasn’t sure what.

Tohru sat beside me in the rain, neither of us knowing what to say. We pet Chella, and I avoided eye contact. 

I don’t know how long the rain fell, how long until I realized my skin had shifted from feverish to chilled. 

When I looked up, Tohru was still there. 

“Thanks for checking on me,” I said. “You didn’t have to.”

Without hesitation, she said, “That’s what friends do.” 

Together we walked back to the school.

**-/-/-**

Tohru’s mom passed away shortly after we both began grade 11. “Passed away” — it’s such a euphemism, this gentle way of describing something that isn’t gentle at all. Like the person just walked away, out of sight, instead of dying. But I always think “passed away” about Kyoko. I want to give her that gentleness, even if it’s a lie. 

She deserved better than what she got. 

Tohru was quiet about what happened. She never complained or even really talked about it, though she didn’t hide it, either. I always saved her a seat for first-period social studies, and one day she didn’t show up. When I saw her at lunch, I asked where she’d been.

“My mom died last night,” she said. Her voice was steady but the corners of her mouth shook.

With unsteady chopsticks, she poked at the homemade tuna roll in her lunch. “Do you want this?” she said. “I’m not very hungry.” 

“No.” My throat had closed up. Kyoko had been sick for a long time, but how could she be _gone?_ And how could the world just go on like it was nothing? “You don’t have to be at school today, you know,” I said. “I’m sure they’d understand if you went home.” 

After a moment, Tohru said quietly, “It’s okay.” She petted Chella, who leaned against her leg, watching attentively as students shuffled past our bench. “I think it would feel stranger to be there.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Do you want to go for a walk after school?”

“I’d like that,” she said. She smiled again, bright and painful. The water in her eyes shone without falling. “How are you doing?”

As long as I could remember, I’d been afraid and ashamed of my anger issues, panic attacks — whatever you want to call that loss of control. This was the first time I’d considered that _not_ losing control might be worse. To have all that hurt stuck inside and no way to get it out.

I did my best to answer past the constriction in my throat. “I’m okay.” Showed her a drawing I’d made in art class (“It’s beautiful,” she said, smiling shakily again), told her what we’d learned in social studies. But mostly we were quiet. We sat in the same place. We pet Chella. Listened to the hum of students passing in the halls. I wanted to tell her something reassuring, something meaningful and true, but there wasn’t any way to make it better. There was an absence in the world where Kyoko had been, and it wasn’t fair, and it hurt like hell. 

“The funeral is on Wednesday,” said Tohru. “Will you come with me, please?”

“Of course.”

She started to say “Thanks,” but mid-way through her face crumpled and she began to cry. “S-sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Do you, uh… would a hug be helpful?”

It seemed like a stupid thing to say, but she leaned into me. We held on to each other. 

When the bell rang, she stood up abruptly, wiped the tears from her eyes, and said, “I should get to class.”

“You don’t have to —” I started.

But she smiled again, and said, “I’ll be fine.”

**-/-/-**

For the next few months, Tohru and I went for walks after school. By the river and the reservoir, through Kensington and Chinatown, city centre and weird parks neither of us had heard of. We saw the whole city. 

S had moved away to focus on her music, not that she and Tohru really talked anymore. Daniel and Ritsu were busy with university and weren’t around that often. Any of them — S included — would have dropped what they were doing in a heartbeat if Tohru had reached out to them, if she’d said she needed support or someone to talk to or even just company. They would have understood. 

But Tohru didn’t do that. She never asked for anything. 

Sometimes it made me angry — that she didn’t think she deserved more. She talked so often about how lucky she was, to have Chella, or me, or her grandpa, or even just a home. But of course she deserved a service dog, a family, a place to stay. And as for me… I was the one who was lucky, that such a good person would choose to have me in her life.

Sometimes classmates asked if we were dating, but it was never like that. That’s not how we saw one another. Not to mention I wasn’t even sure if Tohru liked guys — I don’t think she herself knew whether she was gay or bi. She wasn’t really in a place where she wanted to date anyone. But, even though it wasn’t romantic, she’d often invite me out after school, accept nearly all my invitations to spend time together. She was quiet, preoccupied, but I could tell she didn’t want to be alone. 

We walked around the city. We watched movies and went to the museum and looked through art supply stores (I couldn’t afford anything, but it was exciting, seeing all the different colours, deep energizing pigments of sunset and crimson and lime, and my mind lit up thinking how I could mix something similar, and how maybe, if I worked hard enough, I could one day paint with colours like these). She wrote and I drew in libraries and coffee shops. We ate at the vegetarian Chinese place while I sketched our teacups. 

Mostly we walked in silence, but gradually Tohru began to tell me things. About Kyoko, how her parents had met. About herself. And I started to get more comfortable talking as well. 

We talked about future plans, about memories from the past, favourite songs and books and movies. It was easy; I didn’t have that feeling around her that I had around most people, that sense that I didn’t know how to be a person. She never acted like my opinions were overreactions, like I was stupid for liking thrash metal and action movies, or like my wish to go to art school was pretentious bullshit. She was the only one besides Shishou I’d ever mentioned that plan to, and she cheered me on as I researched different programs. It was easy to talk to her because she listened. And I listened to her, too. 

She wants to travel. She loves the world, wants to meet its different people, hear their music and try their food. She wants to write plays and movies, socially aware performances that will help people understand one another. She thinks that if people have the chance to learn, to see where others are coming from, how they live, how regardless of race or class or orientation or ability everyone is real, then people will treat each other better. She really believes in this.

Honestly, I would have brushed the idea aside if anyone else was saying it — it’s a nice thought, sure, but from what I’ve seen, a lot of people just aren’t that great. They like to mock others, to treat them like shit for being different — and there are always going to be people who are different. 

But when Tohru talks about her ideas, I believe her. Because she’s been through it — nothing about her life has been easy, and yet she's still here, trying to help others. If people like her exist, humanity can’t be all that awful. 

One day we were walking after school, the rain coming down hard. I held an umbrella above our heads, my arm sore and heavy. Droplets rattled the surface of the river, water leaking into my socks as we walked down the path.

Chella, meanwhile, was thrilled to be getting soaked, tail wagging like a soggy flag. I tried to channel some of her enthusiasm — the rain always made me feel half-dead.

Tohru said, “The green’s coming out,” Looking out, I realized it was true; fresh grass poked up through the brown, and new buds were strung pale green across the ash-grey branches.

For a moment I was shocked. The seasons had changed and I hadn’t even realized it. Strands of sun broke the clouds and danced on the iceless river. I tried to think of names for the colours it made, how I would paint that spectrum, catch the tones of lilac and citric-yellow glowing in the gravel, the shimmer of light around the new leaves. Rain had scrubbed all the colours new. And without Tohru, I never would have noticed.

“I love the rain,” said Tohru, “don’t you?”

She smiled. It was the first time since Kyoko died that I'd seen her smile in a way that didn’t look like it hurt. 

I smiled too. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Walking beneath the same umbrella, we watched the sky empty itself and waited for the days to get long again.

**-/-/-**

By the time grade 12 rolled around, Tohru was more like how she’d used to be — laughing easily, a bit anxious but still excited about pretty much everything. Now it’s only occasionally that I’ll catch that flash of pain, like the glint of broken glass. 

We gradually started spending more time apart. Not in any sense avoiding each other — we still eat lunch together, and hang out a few times a week — but like… I think we both got more okay with being by ourselves. Better at tolerating our own thoughts. And at knowing that, no matter what happens, we’ll always be there for each other, even if we aren’t literally in the same room. 

Then Akito came along, and they started spending a lot of time together, too. 

I don’t trust Akito as far as I can throw him. Which is, admittedly, pretty far, but still. When people talk, he never contributes much to the conversation, never says who he is or what his past was, why he transferred in the middle of the semester. And the way he lashed out on me on his first day… there’s something off about him, something angry and pulsing, both fragile and volatile. 

I guess I’m one to talk. But if he ever lashes out at her like that…

Still, Tohru seems happy with Akito. And, as closely as I’ve been watching, I’ve never seen Akito be anything but kind to her, and that matters a lot more than how he treats me. If she’s happy, I’m happy, even if I don’t get it.

But I’ll be watching this secretive kid with an anger in his eyes. 

Her eyes? Their? 

I’ve heard Akito referred to as all of the above, and I’ll call them what they want to be called. But really, it doesn’t make much difference.

Regardless of gender, no one hurts my best friend. 

**-/-/-**

**Tohru**

The day of the party, Akito arrives to help set up a few hours before the other guests are scheduled to arrive. Stepping through the doorway, they shake the snow from their hair, kiss me with cold lips. 

"Thanks for coming," I say. 

"My pleasure." They shrug off their dark coat, the two of us tangling arms, laughing as we both try to be the one to hang it up first. 

"I win the politeness competition," they say with mock-smugness, lifting the coat out of my grasp with their longer arms, hanging it on the hook. 

"I'll let you have this victory, but only because of how polite _I_ am," I counter. Suddenly, the fretting and loneliness of the morning seem very far away. 

The last few hours, I've been wrapping and rewrapping gifts, adjusting tinsel and place setting, and pacing the living room while Chella follows, her dog tags clinking along with her steps. With My grandpa and cousins away at my aunt's place, I thought the house would feel peaceful. Instead, my nervousness spreads out in all directions through the too-quiet rooms. 

I usually spent the holidays with my mom, celebrating with movies and take-out Schezchuan food from our favourite restaurant. Neither of us was religious, but it was special, to both have the day off and be able to spend it together. It was ours. 

Last Christmas Eve, the first one without her, I sat at the table with my grandpa, my aunt, and her family. She chided her children for using the wrong forks, and I looked down at my own in shame and confusion, hesitating to touch anything in case I did it wrong. Her sons talked of their school accomplishments, and I complimented them like I was supposed to. Like they deserved, really — they _are_ hard working. I tried my best to avoid attention, knowing I'd be laughed at if my own B-average or goal to be a screenwriter came up. I left early to do the dishes, tried to use the sound of water to wash the thoughts from my mind. 

Althought it hurt to be around my aunt and cousins, it could have been worse. It would have been more painful to be alone. For every empty space to turn into a reminder of the person who wasn't there. 

"Is everything okay?" says Akito. 

"Hmm?" I startle out of my thoughts. 

"You're quiet."

"Oh. Just nervous, I guess." We walk into the kitchen and I re-check the oven, which is of course the same as it was two minutes ago. "I want everything to be perfect."

"It is," says Akito. I lean in and kiss them again. Their mouth opens warmly into mine, and I move my hand up the back of their neck, bringing us closer together. Their soft hair tangles silkily around my fingers, and Akito presses harder against me, until my back is to the wall, my arms around their shoulders. Electricity runs up my spine and I’m pulling them closer, closer. 

_Thud._ We jump apart. Akito jolts, black hair whirling as they search for the source of the sound. 

Behind us in Chella, mouth open in a pink smile. As I lean down to pet her, I see her enthusiastistic tail-wagging has knocked over the bag of sugar Akito brought for baking. They must see it at the same time I do, because suddenly, we’re both laughing. 

It's nice hearing them laugh. It doesn't happen that often; though they try to hide it, I often catch the sadnness in their voice, the mostly-hidden stutter of anxiety when we're out in social situations, the depth of emotion buried under their attempted monotone. I feel how they flinch when touched undexpectedly, how they jump when there's a noise from the next room. 

I've seen them struggle to eat, heard them offhandedly mention their nightmares and sleeping problems. Though they rarely complain, I know how exhausted they often are, and how hard they are working to get better. I've felt their bravery, day after day, when they go out in public despite the anxiety, when they tell me about themself despite the tremble in their voice. When, despite it all, I hear them laugh. 

I know things haven't been easy for Akito, and I know they're not ready to talk about it. But I hope they know that if they ever want to, I'll be here to listen. Always.

That's all I can do.

“Oh!” I say. “Before I forget. Your Christmas gift.”

I run up the stairs to my bedroom and come back with the silver-wrapped package. 

“I have something for you, too,” they say. Fabric rustles as they dig through the pockets of their coat, coming out with a gift-wrapped rectangular package.

“Your turn first,” I say as we make our way to the living room. We sit down on the sofa and I nuzzle into their shoulder.

First they open the card, reading it in silence. “Thank you,” they say after, setting it on the table. “Really. This is… thank you.” They pause. “I’m not used to anyone saying things like that to me. It’s… I appreciate it.” 

“I wanted you to know how you make me feel.” 

I watch their face as they unwrap the package. They do it carefully, barely any sound of tearing, like they’re holding some kind of treasure. My heart skips; what if they don’t like it?

As they hold up the scarf, jewel tones of deep greens and blue falling through their hands, their expression doesn’t change, remains focused and serious. 

“I know you mostly wear black, if you don’t like it —” 

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” They’re quiet for a moment. “You made this?”

“Yes, I’ve only made a few before, so if there’s anything wrong with it —”

“It’s perfect.” They lean in and we kiss. After, they look back at the scarf. “It’s even my favourite colours.”

“I remembered you mentioned that. And that you were always cold… I wanted to give you something you would like.” 

“I love it.” A cloud crosses their face. “This must have taken you so long. I don’t know if what I made is… enough.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it.” I say, kissing their cheek. They smile, but avert their eyes as I begin unwrapping the package. 

The first thing to tumble out is an envelope, sealed closed with a sticker of an onigiri. “They were selling those in Chinatown,” Akito mumbles.

Inside is a card made of pale green, hand pressed paper, soft against my fingertips. On the front is a minimalist drawing of a tree, with a star on top shining out rays of white and yellow. Inside, they’ve written a message in elegant cursive.

_Tohru,_

_When I moved to Calgary two months ago, I had no idea what to expect. Each day I am thankful that one of my first experiences here was meeting you. Nothing I could have imagined could have been as special as what I found._

_The last two months have been some of the happiest, most frightening, and most rewarding of my life. When I question my decision to come here, I remember how it led me to you, and all the uncertainty becomes worth it._

_You are an incredible, one-of-a-kind person, and I hope you know that. You change so many lives for the better, simply by being a part of them, simply by being you. Your kindness has changed how I look upon the world. Every day, your optimism and creativity expand my sense of what is possible. You have helped me to feel excited for the future rather than afraid._

_I am so grateful you exist._

_With love,  
Akito_

I blink, trying to clear the tears from my eyes.

Attached to back of the card is a cd, labelled with all the songs on it. Some artists I know, though don’t recognize the obscure song titles, while others I haven’t heard of at all. The case is labelled, _Music I Want To Share With You._

Finally, there is a framed photograph — no, several photographs, arranged together. The frame is an ocean silver-blue, about a foot tall and filled with colour. There’s a selfie of Akito and I smiling in the lunch room, another of us making silly expressions while waiting for a bus amongst the blue-lit snow. A lilac sunset between winter branches, a flare of gold light in late fall leaves — moments we saw together, I realize. The neon sign of The Music Box, Ritsu, Daniel and I standing in front of it. Our friends in the lunch room sitting at our table. Kyo and I looking up at the camera while he holds up a drawing of himself and me. 

All these memories. All my friends. 

The tears in my eyes slip down my cheeks. 

“Tohru? Are you okay?”

Akito holds me and I snuggle into their warmth. “Yes,” I say. “I’m much better than okay. It’s just… sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

“I know the feeling,” they say softly. 

“I love you.” I feel my eyes widen, my body freeze once the words have escaped into the air. “S-sorry,” I say, swallowing. “Was that too much?”

“No,” says Akito, voice quiet. They look at me with focused eyes. “Did you… mean that?”

My heart races, but I decide to be honest. “Yes. I did.”

“I love you too,” they say. 

The tightness in my chest dissolves into warmth, and I feel a smile spread across my face, so wide it hurts a bit. And looking at me, Akito smiles too, laughing, their face a bit red, the happiest I’ve ever seen them. “I love you, Tohru. Of course I love you.” 

They reach out and pull me towards them, and I pull them towards me, kissing each other deeply, holding each other tight, laughing as we come up for air. I brush their hair out of their eyes, look into the starry light in the dark pools of their irises. I run my finger down their cheek and touch the softness of their smile. “I’m so lucky,” I say again, leaning in for another kiss. 

The chatter of my mind shushes. Our bodies fit together in easy touching, and laughing is simple again. 

_I love you._

We reach for each other, and neither of us flinch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this latest chapter! Hope everyone is having a lovely summer. As always, any feedback is highly appreciated.


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